Chapter 8

"No photography," Birju said harshly, waving away the television cameras.

Someone thrust a searing white light in Madhavi's face, blinding her momentarily. She stumbled over a camera cable. All around them, the street was packed with urchins, coolies, mill workers, and residents of nearby slums and chawls, all gathered to witness the parade of glamour and celebrityhood streaming into the city's newest hotspot.

"Aye, heroine lagti hai!" someone called out to her, pinching her bottom through the saree. She gasped and turned to see who the perpetrator was, but Birju tugged insistently at her arm. "Come on! What you stopping for?"

She started to tell him about the bottom-pincher, but then she realized that he didn't give a damn. Look at him. Already, he was hungry for prey. A hyena on the plains at night, hungry for a kill. He pulled her through the gates and into the complex, gripping her elbow tightly enough to hurt, eyes darting this way then that, taking in everything, lingering over the slightest glimpse of female flesh.

She was ashamed of him. And ashamed of herself for being with him. She hated herself for continuing with this charade, for being a part of his sick lifestyle. Involuntarily, her feet slowed, unwilling to take her further toward the inevitable horror that lay ahead.

Birju sensed her slowing and hissed, "Jaldi chal!" in her ear, yanking her arm and forcing her to walk faster. She stumbled on her high heels, nearly fell, but caught herself. He pinched the soft flesh of her upper arm viciously, silently warning her to hurry and to behave herself.

She felt like telling him to go to hell, that if he wanted to indulge his sick fantasies, then he should count her out. She wanted to turn around and walk out right now.

What was a decent middle-class woman like her from Varkala, Kerala, doing with a man like Birju anyway? Keeping up his carefully crafted image of being a rich, semi-famous, happy socialite couple, that's what. Just like all these other desperadoes rushing down a long alley framed by a black satin cloth runner on the left and the compound wall on the right. Hypocrites and hedonists, all of them.

She hated him, she hated this socialite scene, she hated every one of these people right now. She prayed that God would send down a fire and burn up every one of them tonight. If He could kill little children in Korea, brave soldiers in Kargil, and hundreds of innocent cinegoers in a theatre in Delhi, then surely he could rid the world of a few hundred socialite scum.

Or at least this one particular scumbag, her husband, she prayed fervently.

They reached the foyer, showed their invitations to the scantily clad ushers and passed into the inner sanctum of sin.