Chapter 2: Goon for Hire

Just after my confinement, I went to see someone—Sameer.

The afternoon sun was beating down as I called the driver to drop me at a lounge bar on Linking Road—the kind where the music thumps and perfume lingers in the air. Sameer is a local goon, but also the most skilled pickup artist I've ever seen. Once, I saw him win over a stunning beauty with just a glass of water. A few days later, he disappeared, and the woman was left lovesick.

A waiter wiped the marble counter with a dirty rag, and the bass from the speakers made my glass of Limca tremble. A group of college kids laughed loudly in a corner, the smell of Old Monk and masala peanuts thick in the air.

Sameer is like a street-smart Bollywood hero—charming, dangerous, able to talk his way in or out of anything. He knows everyone from cops to club owners. His smile is as smooth as the whiskey he drinks.

Back then, I'd heard my daughter was hanging out at bars with classmates. Worried, I invested in the lounge they frequented, asking staff to keep an eye on the kids and prevent trouble.

A mother's worry can build empires or break them. Better to spend money than risk my daughter's safety. I even bribed the bouncer to call me if any of the girls got into trouble.

Until Sameer showed up, and the staff weren't sure about him, so they asked me to come check him out myself.

I wore sunglasses and pretended to be a client. From behind the bar, I watched him work his magic. Smooth—never too pushy, always attentive. I understood why the staff were worried.

I hid behind the bar and watched his whole seduction routine. After, I warned him not to hunt in my bar again.

He gave me a sly, seductive look with his mischievous eyes. Just that one glance, and I understood what Dadi meant by 'dil le gaya.'

He winked, running a hand through his hair as if it was all a game. If I'd been twenty years younger, maybe I'd have blushed.

Luckily, I was already prepared for his type, or that look would have made my heart flutter too.

We Indian women grow up surrounded by stories of men like him. Dadi's warnings echoed—don't get taken in by smooth talkers.

Seeing I didn't react, he lazily blew a smoke ring and said, "Too much of a mummy vibe, not interesting."

I glared, but he was right. My sari was too proper, my manner too strict.

Then he handed me a business card: "Let's be friends. Who knows, maybe someday you'll need me."

The card was embossed, expensive. It felt like a challenge.

At the time, I thought, why would I need a goon? Didn't expect to eat my words so soon.

Life is strange, na? You never know which rasta you'll have to walk again.

When I saw him again, he seemed even more dazzling than before, with a kind of wild, dangerous charm—like a Bollywood anti-hero, mysterious, dangerous, exuding sexual tension.

His hair was longer, stubble framing his jaw, shirt open at the neck—he looked like the kind of man who'd break rules for fun. The waiters nodded to him with respect tinged with fear.

"Arrey, madamji, so finally you remembered poor Sameer?"

He grinned, lighting another cigarette, eyes shining with mischief.

"Mr. Sameer, you really are a prophet. I do need your help."

I tried to sound businesslike, but my voice trembled a little. In his presence, you feel both powerful and powerless.

He raised an eyebrow, signalling for me to continue.

The bar seemed to fall silent, as if waiting for drama to unfold.

I described my predicament with the mistress, and my request was simple: seduce Meera Sinha, even just once. With Rajeev's personality, he'd never touch her again.

It was a risk. But sometimes, you have to fight fire with fire. My hands were sweating as I made my proposal.

"A job this tough..." He stroked his chin, pretending to be troubled.

He looked up at the ceiling, as if weighing the universe. But I knew he was enjoying my desperation.

"Name your price."

I'd already withdrawn five lakh in cash, the wad of notes heavy in my bag.

"Someone like Meera Sinha has seen it all. Ordinary tricks won't work. I'll have to present myself as a diamond bachelor: luxury yacht, private jet, famous cars, luxury watches—none of that can be missing. The activity budget can't be small either."

His tone was half-mocking, half-serious. He leaned forward as if sharing a secret.

"I'm not a fool. You've already shown off all that on your Instagram stories. You own the clothes and accessories. For the rest, I trust a pro like you can find cost-effective solutions."

We both knew this wasn't his first such job. Still, I had to show I wasn't a bakri waiting for slaughter.

"Why are you so kanjoos? The mistress is at your doorstep, and you're still not willing to bleed a little."

He tried to guilt-trip me, but I held my ground. In this city, you can't survive if you're a softie.

"I don't want to get conned before the divorce even happens."

A bitter laugh escaped me. Every rupee spent before the war is won feels like a wound.

"You don't trust me? Then why come to me at all?"

He pretended to leave, and I didn't stop him. The bartender told me he'd been drinking cheaper liquor lately—probably not doing well.

The bartender, wiping glasses behind us, gave me a quick nod. Even the help knew Sameer's luck was running thin these days.

"Arrey, you really aren't going to beg me?" Sure enough, he couldn't keep up the act and came back.

He tried to swagger, but there was a hint of hopefulness in his eyes. He needed this as much as I did.

"I'm the client, hiring someone to do a job. If you don't want it, I'll find someone else. There must be more than one outstanding graduate from your pickup artist training camp."

He smiled, said nothing, but sat down again.

He signalled for another cutting chai. The battle of egos was over; business had begun.

"Five lakhs. If you succeed, I'll pay you five lakhs as a service fee. The rest of the expenses will be reimbursed with receipts. You'll wear a listening device so I can monitor the progress."

I took out the money, counting the notes with calm fingers. He whistled, impressed.

"Deal."

This time, he didn't play hard to get and agreed readily.

He shook on it, his grip warm and slightly rough. This was the kind of deal men like him live for.

Just as I was preparing to arrange a chance encounter for Sameer and Meera Sinha, he taught me a lesson in what it means to be a true pickup artist. In less than five minutes, he had his first intimate interaction with Meera Sinha.