The Mountain Shadow

‘It’s not just the risks to ourselves,’ Chandra replied reasonably. ‘Think about it. If we did such a picture, there’d be riots. Cinemas could get attacked. As Cliff says, there could even be fires. People could die. Is it worth a risk like that, just to tell a story?’

‘Somebody already died,’ Lisa said through almost clenched teeth. ‘A dancer. A wonderfully gifted dancer. Did you ever see him at the NCPA?’

Cliff spluttered a mouthful of wine on the table.

‘The National Centre for the Performing Arts?’ he scoffed. ‘The only performing that Chandra’s interested in is what pretty girls do when the lights are low, isn’t that right, brother?’

Chandra Mehta wriggled uncomfortably.

‘You should slow down on the booze, Cliff. You started too early tonight.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ his partner said, glaring at him and pouring another glass of wine. ‘Are you worried that I’m going to tell Ranjit I think his phoney campaign is more about his political ambitions than it is about Avinash, the dead dancer? Ranjit should be the one to worry, not us. We buy pages of his newspapers every day.’

‘Why don’t we leave business in the office?’ Ranjit said, through a thin smile.

‘You’re the one who brought it up,’ Cliff replied, waving his glass and spilling a little wine on Sneha’s coloured bangles.

‘Do you have any personal opinion on what happened to Avinash?’ Lisa asked Cliff. ‘Considering that it happened five hundred feet from your movie studio, and Avinash danced in three of your movies?’

‘Lin,’ Chandra cut in quickly. ‘Help me out here. What do you think? I’m right, na? If we did a movie like this, there’d be blood on the seats. We shouldn’t needlessly offend the sensibilities, and the . . . the feelings, you know, of any community, isn’t that so?’

‘It’s your subject, guys, not mine. You two own the movies, Ranjit owns the newspapers, and neither of them have anything to do with me.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Ranjit said, glancing at Lisa. ‘Let’s hear what you honestly think about this, Lin.’

‘I already gave you an honest answer, Ranjit.’

‘Please, Lin,’ Lisa urged me.

‘Okay. Someone once said that the sophistication of any community of people is inversely proportionate to their capacity to be aroused to violence by what people say in public, or do in private.’

‘I have . . . absolutely . . . no idea . . . what the fuck that means,’ Cliff said, his mouth gaping open.

‘It means,’ Ranjit said, ‘that sophisticated people don’t get upset by what people say in public, or do in the privacy of their own homes. It’s the unsophisticated that do.’

‘But . . . what does that mean for me?’ Chandra asked me.

‘It means that I agree with you, Chandra. You shouldn’t do the story.’

‘What?’ Lisa gasped.

‘See?’ Cliff said, waving his glass. ‘I’m right.’

‘Why not, Lin?’ Ranjit asked, his charming smile fading.

‘It’s not their fight.’

‘I told you!’ Cliff sneered.

‘But it’s important, don’t you agree, Lin?’ Ranjit asked me, but directing his frown at Lisa.

‘Of course it’s important. A man was killed, murdered, and not for something he did, but for something he was. But it’s not their fight, Ranjit. They don’t believe in it, and Avinash deserves believers.’

‘Last week it was Avinash,’ Lisa said, glaring at me. ‘Next week it could be Muslims or Jews or Christians or women they’re beating up, and setting on fire. Or it could be movie producers. That makes it everybody’s business.’

‘You should only do it, if you believe in it,’ I said. ‘Cliff and Chandra don’t. They don’t really care a damn about Avinash, no offence. It’s not their fight.’

‘Exactly!’ Cliff protested. ‘I just want to make lots of money, maybe win a few awards now and then, and live a happy life on the red carpet. Is that so bad?’

The first course arrived, it was impossible to talk, and everyone turned their attention to the small swarm of waiters serving a flowerbed of food.

A messenger from the concierge desk approached as the food was being served. He bowed to the guests, and then bent to whisper in my ear.

‘There is a Mr Naveen at the reception, sir. He says it is rather urgent that he speak to you.’

I excused myself, and made my way to the lobby. I had no trouble finding Naveen and Divya: anyone within ten metres could hear them fighting.

‘I won’t!’ Divya shouted.

‘You’re being so –’

‘Forget it!’ she snapped. ‘I’m not doing it!’

‘Hey, man,’ Naveen sighed, as I joined him. ‘Sorry to bust into your dinner.’

‘No problem,’ I replied, shaking hands with him, and nodding to the sulky socialite. ‘What’s up?’

‘We were coming down from a private party on the eighteenth floor –’

‘A party that was just getting good!’ Divya pouted.

‘A party that was about to get busted for rioting,’ Naveen corrected her, ‘which was why we were leaving. And who gets into the lift, on the way down? None other than our mystery man –’

‘Mr Wilson.’

‘The same.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘I couldn’t resist it. I know we agreed to wait until we could talk to him together, but it seemed like a God-given opportunity, so I thought I’d play the hand.’