The Blue Bar

When you close yourself off from people because they might end up hurting you, you shut out not only the hurt, but life itself. You have no control over what will happen to you, but you can choose whether to risk it all, or retreat.

Instinct told him to run, but in some ways, he was like the boy. The boy was afraid of the Item Number, but he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her. Bilal cursed himself. He was scared of the boy now, but he couldn’t abandon the child he’d raised into a man.

Suspicious, but none of it will stand up in court. You’re talking about a mafia don, a senior Mumbai police officer, a Bollywood star, a businessman, and now the Home Minister, in the same breath. These families can afford the most expensive lawyers in India.

The Item Number had never given him a choice—not at the railway tracks, nor in his bed. He wasn’t a monster like her. He let women choose.

but a father who had promised to bring her back safe. Who would keep searching for her—because that’s what fathers did, protected their children. Didn’t sell them to the nearest predator, like Tara’s father had. She hoped she wasn’t wrong about Arnav.

Rehaan Virani was in the van with Neha Chaubey’s body. There had to be an explanation.

A week ago, Tara wasn’t a part of his life, but now she’d become the epicenter of a slow earthquake, his days on the brink of collapse.

Shinde had listened to Arnav rant about his father, about the spineless judicial system. Helped carry the body of Arnav’s father to the funeral pyre. Sat beside his mother’s hospital bed when Arnav worked two jobs. Fed Arnav when he was hungry.

Strange he is, to do that when one of his inspectors was recently hospitalized. Not been right in the head ever since his wife ran away with his driver.

Practical, useful, successful, a woman who knew what she desired and went for it. This was the sort of woman Tara aspired for Pia to become.

was wrong, but what could I do? A man has needs. After work at the station, I need relief and Sujata is too tired or asleep by the time I’m home. You’re not married, and have no clue. Girls throw themselves at you.

He craved a break from all the shit in his life, the nemesis who refused to die despite a well-executed traffic accident, the home falling into chaos in the absence of a diligent housekeeper.

Nandini lived in a world of teas like this one, of long English sentences spoken too fast, of expensive restaurants. Closer to Arnav’s world than hers. And yet this woman had been kind to her.

Maybe it was better to have sex with a stranger and be beaten up, than live in fear of not returning to your daughter.

She was not in love with Arnav. Only rich, respectable folk could afford such emotions, not a bar girl, not even one masquerading as a choreographer. No point in fancy

That sometimes meant an influx of cash from the shady underworld—the Mumbai dons who kept up fronts while they ran their drug and arms cartels outside the country.

She’d received a long reprieve in Lucknow—Pia had given her that—fourteen years of dancing without worrying if she’d dressed sexy enough to earn her keep. Now, she must again reach for that seasoned, seductive Tara.

and like Zoya said, a bar girl’s kids were like rats, spreading filth, drawing hatred from this world.

Like who, Ms. Virani? Does Mr. Taneja make the rules? You are a woman yourself. Aren’t you curious why we found three dead, decomposing women on a site where your fiancé’s company is running a project?

Everyone drove Ferraris. Their biggest problem seemed to involve not having the perfect outfit to wear to a party—typical cotton candy Bollywood nonsense.

No open drains in this Mumbai, no squalling, half-naked children, no cows or goats, no stray dogs. The same city, but two countries, poles apart.

Supreme Court decision. “On the other hand, the government must restrict the trafficking of minor girls. Dance bars should reopen, but they need strict implementation of laws so that women are not exploited.

His startling career graph took off thanks not only to his uncanny ability to sniff out criminals but also to his connections with the political party that had ruled the state of Maharashtra for many years.

Remember,” Tukaram said as they walked to Arnav’s car, “this job will let you go someday. Find yourself someone who won’t. Maybe a good girl. Get married. Your family will stick by you. Invite me to the wedding.

He left behind a wife and children, but since he died when off duty, they received no compensation. A stinking heap there, if you ask me.

Saturday evening and instead of roaming around Juhu-Chowpatty with a pretty-pretty girl, here you are, searching for dead people. No life in Mumbai Police, I tell you.

Mumbai Police was trying to revamp its image, make the force sound more public-facing, friendly, but the macho reputation created by decades of Bollywood movies remained.

Not rumors. He did molest women. All the guests here know that, but won’t say a word. Maybe that’s why he’s marrying her. If she decides to quash a rumor, it won’t survive.” “She’s working

events, the air-kissing, the flicking of hair, the exaggerated laughter, the expensive fragrances. Gleaming watches and jewelry.