Age of Vice

by Deepti Kapoor

he’s not a rich man, not a rich man at all, rather a facsimile, a man dressed in the imitation of wealth: in its service. The clothes, the well-groomed features, the car, they cannot hide the essential poverty of his birth; its smell is stronger than any liquor or cologne.

river snagged and dammed with garbage, the low metal bridge across woven with prayer flags. They join a new road out of town

His body inhabits adulthood though his mind is still somewhere behind, sometimes a child, always looking to be needed more than he really needs anyone.

It never occurs to him to be part of them, to ask to be part of them, and it never occurs to them to ask it of him—they accept him as he is, without malice or curiosity.

He feels blessed, content. But he tells himself in the dark: You know how precarious life can be. It’s true.

The boys encourage Ajay to find a girl. What is he waiting for? He has enough admirers. The girls often ask about him. But he’s too shy; he recoils. He cannot conceive of it, his own body terrifies him, his own needs. He likes to set himself within limits; those limits keep him strong.

“Don’t tell us about our culture. We’re not zoo animals for your pleasure, not the smiling native to accessorize your enlightenment. The simplicity and honesty you think you know is simply your eyes deceiving your brain. You see and hear nothing. And this guy,” he says, pointing to the owner, “doesn’t give a fuck if we bring food from outside. We paid him for that privilege. If you could speak our language, you’d know this. If you knew our culture, you’d know respect is one currency, but at the end of the day, money talks. Finally, understand this one thing. India is our country, not yours. You are guests here. We are great hosts, but don’t disrespect us in our own home.”

It’s only when he walks around inside that his mood changes. With nothing left in his pocket, he feels an ominous burden, an oppressive sense of waste and fear. The landscape is of judgment; he begins to suspect everyone knows. He’s a fraud. It’s not only clothes, but bearing. He’s never had this feeling before, never cared what anyone says of him. Now he clams up. He feels the shop assistants watching him, singling him out. They know he’s merely trying to pass for the other side. So he doesn’t dare go inside certain shops, even to browse. To open his mouth would be to give the game away. Finally he retreats to one of the bathrooms and sits sweating in one of the stalls. He looks down at his ridiculous clothes that feel so tight. What was he thinking? He looks like a clown. When he comes out of the stall he stares at his dumb clown’s face in the mirror and wants to erase it.

How foolish of him. How futile to believe he could alter the world.

For a brief moment, out in the street, exhaling smoke in the cold and the rain, she revels in her spite. At least it is a feeling. An old one. Like her old self. She used to have a smart mouth. She used to be, for want of a better word, “sassy.” It’s dangerous, remembering that. That exuberance. Glib. She could be so glib. It would be easy enough to be glib again. What she fears most is joy.

She felt anxious and skittish all morning at work, worrying about what she might have said and done, the regular hangover traumas, amplifying all those underlying fears. She was terrified of being irrelevant, of being found out, of being left behind. All those people there last night, they’d seen her. She’d thought she was being cool, but what if she’d been plain ridiculous? And now in the morning they were thinking how pathetic she was. And what if Sunny was laughing about her too, laughing with one of them right now? She reassured herself with the usual formulations: Everyone was as drunk as you. But they’re not like you, she countered herself. They’re rich or powerful or cool. What are you doing, Neda? She thought to text Hari, but she was too ashamed. But why? She’d done nothing wrong.

All Neda’s life, this was a part of Delhi that she saw and didn’t see. The slums had always been there; every time she crossed the river she looked down on the ramshackle city clinging to the banks. They were inevitable, they were ugly, they induced shame, guilt, in momentary flashes, but their people were submerged in her mind. If she thought about any of it at all, she thought it was Delhi, an eyesore, a sign of failure. But Dean saw the slums as people, and he saw their destruction as a tragedy.

“This is my sanctuary. I refuse to live a double life in here.” She nodded. “There’s enough of a double life to live outside.” She lived a double life all the time. Even in her own heart. Almost everyone did. It was just how things were. Someone was always watching, keeping a record of things to be used against you later. Who wouldn’t want to be free in their own home?

“No one talks back. Not anymore.” “No one?” “Not to me.” “Not even your friends?” “Not even my friends.” “Not even your bestest, bestest friends?” He shook his head solemnly. “Well, that’s because they’re scared of you,” she laughed. “They’re scared of my money,” he countered. “No,” she shot back. “I’m sure they love the money. What they’re scared of is losing access. This is basic school shit. You’re the cool new kid.

She was rapidly tiring of his rhetorical grandstanding.

She couldn’t get a grip on the situation, couldn’t tell if he was serious, sincere, deluded, if he was toying with her, if this was just a circuitous routine to try to get her into bed (it was failing!), or whether he was just exercising his arrogance on her. The silence went on, and he held all the cards.

The game is rigged, the rules are stacked, you people make the rules in the first place. You already have everything, and you don’t want to share. So sometimes things must be taken.