Fiction: A friend’s murder draws Karan into Mumbai’s world of sex, crime and politics

“I should get going now,” Karan said putting his camera back in its case. Evening was giving way to night. Mosquitoes danced over the privet flanking the path leading back to the cottage. “Thanks for your time; it was a wonderful shoot. I’ll make copies of the pictures and send them to you.”

“Won’t you come inside for a Bellini?” Samar gestured toward his cottage.

“Yes,” Zaira said. “Please do.”

Karan glanced curiously at the house. Perhaps Samar’s house, in keeping with his persona, would be baroque, teeming with antiques and satin upholstery, decadent and lavish and extravagant. Then he looked at Zaira, and her presence made Samar’s offer all the more inviting.

“I don’t want to intrude –” Karan swung his camera case on to his shoulder.

“There’s no need to be so formal,” Samar said sternly. “And certainly not now, after you’ve seen me in my swimming trunks.”

Karan laughed. “Well, then, I’d love to have a drink.”

Entering through the French doors, Karan stepped on to a cool cement floor of brick-red geru. Tropical palms in cane barrels shaded a large wicker chair. On one side of the rectangular room was a white couch with a marvellously battered air. Glass votives with tea lights on tables and in niches...

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