The Malhotra bungalow was what it was supposed to be: a white colonial structure on a wide tree-lined lane, the kind of house that communicated power through understatement, every measured metre of lawn saying we do not need to announce ourselves in the specific dialect of Delhi's political elite.
They were received by the personal aide — a man in a white kurta who had the compressed efficiency of someone who managed enormous complexity on behalf of someone else. They were shown through the formal reception rooms into a library-study at the rear of the house. Bookshelves, a large desk, two sofas facing each other across a coffee table bearing chai and biscuits that would not be touched by anyone.
Vikram Malhotra came in three minutes later. The photographs had captured the size of him — the physical presence, the broad-shouldered build unusual for a man of fifty-eight who spent most of his time in meetings. What they had not captured was the quality of the tiredness in his face. Not the performed exhaustion of a politician. Something more genuine. The tiredness of a man who was afraid for someone and had been afraid for a while and had been very good at not showing it until this moment.
