"Call me Jeet," he offered. His smile was wide, natural, and confident.
"And it's a pleasure to meet you," he countered, with the well rounded and musical inflection of Bombay's best private schools and universities: my favourite accent in all the beautiful ways to speak the English language. "I've heard so much about you."
"Achaa?" I responded without thinking, exactly as an Indian of my age might've done. The word, in its literal translation, means good. In that context and with that inflection it meant Oh, yeah?
"Yes," he laughed, releasing my hand. "Karla talks about you often. You're quite the hero to her, I'm sure you know."
"That's funny," I answered, not sure if he was as ingenuous as he seemed to be. "She once told me that heroes only come in three kinds: dead, damaged, or dubious."
He tipped his head back and roared with laughter, his mouth open wide enough to reveal a perfect set of perfect Indian teeth.
Still laughing, he met my eye and wagged his head in wonder.
So that's part of it, I thought. He gets her jokes. He likes her play with words. He understands her love of them and her cleverness. That's one of the reasons why she likes him. Okay.
The rest of it was more obvious. He had a lithe build, and was average tall, my height, with an open, handsome face. More than just the sum of good features-high cheekbones, a high, wide forehead, expressive topaz-coloured eyes, a strong nose, smiling mouth, and firm chin-it was the kind of face that once would've been called dashing: the lone yachtsman, the mountaineer, the jungle adventurer. He wore his hair short. The hairline was receding, but even that seemed to suit him, as if it was the preferred option for healthy, athletic men. And the clothes-I knew them well from the shopping expeditions that Sanjay, Andrew, Faisal, and the other mafiosi made to the most expensive stores in the city. There wasn't a self-respecting gangster in Bombay who wouldn't have pursed his lips and wagged his head in approval of Ranjit's clothes.
"Well," I said, shuffling my feet to move around him and greet Kalpana, the last friend sitting in the loop of the table. She was working as a first-assistant director for Mehta-De Souza productions, and in training to become a director in her own right. She looked up at me and winked.
"Wait," Ranjit requested, softly but quickly. "I wanted to tell you... about your stories... your short stories..."
I turned to flinch a frown at Kavita Singh, who hunched her shoulders and raised the palms of her hands as she looked away.
"Kavita let me read them, and I wanted to tell you how good they are. I mean, how good _I think they are."
"Well, thanks," I muttered, trying once again to move past him.
"Really. I read them all, and I think they're really great."
There are few things more discomfiting than a spontaneous outburst of genuine decency from someone you're determined to dislike for no good reason. I felt a little blush of shame beginning to spread across my cheeks.
"Thanks," I said, putting truth into my eyes and my voice for the first time. "It's damn nice to hear, even if Kavita wasn't supposed to show them to anyone."
"I know she wasn't," he said quickly. "But I think you should- show them to someone, I mean. They're not right for my paper.
It's not the right forum. But The Noonday, well, it would be the perfect forum for them. And I know they'd buy them for a very fair price. The editor of The Noonday, Anil, is a friend of mine.
I know what he likes, and I know he'll like your stories. I didn't show him your work, of course. Not without your permission. But I did tell him that I read them, and that I think they're good. He wants to meet you. If you take your stories to him, I'm sure you'll get on well with him. Anyway, I'll leave it at that. He's hoping to see you. But it's up to you. Whatever you decide, I wish you all the best."
He sat down, and I moved past him to greet Kalpana and then take my place beside Didier. I was so distracted by the exchange with Ranjit-Jeet-Choudry that I only half-listened to Didier's announcement of his planned trip to Italy with Arturo. Three months, I heard him say, and I remember thinking that three months in Italy could become three years, and that I might lose him. The thought was so strange that I wouldn't let myself consider it. Bombay without Didier was like... Bombay without Leopold's, or the Haji Ali Mosque, or the Gateway Monument. It was unthinkable.
