The problem, Rajendra realized as he stared into the cracked mirror of his rented room, was that he looked like a man who had packed for a three-day business trip, not a meeting with his new sasur—a Chinese army general, no less. His only suit was back in Mumbai, probably gathering dust and looking smug.
He went to the nearest state-run department store, a vast, echoing place that smelled of mothballs and disappointment. After much gesturing, he acquired a dark grey high-collared tunic and matching trousers. They were made of a fabric that felt like cardboard dipped in starch, but they were clean, sharp, and Respectfully Chinese. As he paid, he couldn't help but think of his mother. "Beta, meeting the in-laws is like going to war. You must dress for surrender, but carry the flag of your dignity in your heart." Well, Amma, he thought, the flag today is made of suspiciously stiff polyester.
Back at the widow's house, Mrs. Chen was waiting in the hallway. She looked him up and down, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she shuffled into her room and returned with two items: an ancient but perfectly pressed white handkerchief, and a small clothes brush made of boar bristle.
"For dust," she said, thrusting them at him. "And for sweat." She peered closer. "You look like a schoolteacher going to his own firing squad. Stand straight." She flicked the brush over his shoulders with surprising violence. "There. Now you look like a schoolteacher who might survive the firing squad."
It was the closest thing to a blessing he was going to get.
The Peace Hotel was a monument to a Shanghai that no longer existed, all dark wood, slow-turning ceiling fans, and the ghost of jazz. The Riverside Lounge was quiet, lit by soft lamps. It felt less like a lounge and more like a library where they checked out treaties instead of books.
Guo Huilan was already at a corner table. She wore a dark blue dress that was simple but elegant, and for the first time, she looked like a woman, not just a cadre. She gave him a microscopic nod as he approached. Approval, or perhaps just acknowledgment that he hadn't worn jeans.
"You look… appropriate," she said in a low voice.
"Thank you. I feel like a waiter at a very tense banquet."
A flicker in her eyes might have been amusement. "My father will be here in five minutes. His name is General Guo Feng. He believes this marriage is either a youthful folly or a deliberate provocation. You must convince him it is the first."
"How do I do that?"
"By being… convincingly infatuated. But not foolish. Respectful, but not weak. Simple, but not stupid."
"So I should just be myself, but in Chinese," Rajendra said.
"Exactly." She almost smiled. "Do not talk business unless he asks. Do not try to be clever. He has dealt with clever men for fifty years. Be… sincere."
"Sincere about what?"
"About me," she said, without a hint of irony. "You saw me, you were struck, you acted impulsively. It is a romance of cultural misunderstanding. A Bollywood plot, but without the singing."
"We could sing if it would help."
"It would not."
Before he could retort, the air in the room changed. A man had entered. He was not tall, but he seemed to occupy space differently, like a stone dropped into a pond. General Guo Feng. Iron-grey hair cut close, a face that looked like it had been carved from a mountain and then left out in the weather for a few decades. He wore a simple olive-green jacket without any insignia. He moved to their table and sat without a word. A waiter materialized, poured tea, and vanished.
The General's eyes settled on Rajendra. It was not a look; it was an inspection. Rajendra felt like a pressure cooker valve being tested for maximum tolerance. Don't whistle, don't whistle, he thought madly to himself.
The General spoke, his voice a low rumble like distant artillery. Guo Huilan translated, her tone softening the edges.
"He asks: 'What does your father do?'"
Ah. The lineage test. Rajendra straightened. "My father owned a textile mill. He worked in it himself, with the workers. He died in an accident in the mill when I was young." He kept it simple, true. No embellishment.
The translation was given. The General's eyes didn't waver. "Who raised you?"
"My mother. And for some months, my father's brother. Then I started working." He didn't mention the System, the multiverse, or the fact that he was technically older than he looked. Some truths were too complicated even for a general.
A grunt. The next question: "You own a mill now. Do you know the machines, or just the accounts?"
Practicality. Respect for labor. "I know the machines, sir. A man who does not know his own tools is at the mercy of those who do." It was something his father had said.
This earned a slow blink. Progress.
"India is a chaotic place. Many languages, many gods. How do you find order?"
Philosophy. Rajendra chose his words carefully. "Order is not the absence of chaos, sir. It is finding the pattern within it. Like a loom. The threads seem chaotic, but they follow a pattern to make the cloth."
The General's lips tightened almost imperceptibly. A good sign, Rajendra hoped.
Then came the core question. The General's gaze sharpened. "My daughter says you met by chance. What did you see in her?"
Rajendra looked at Guo Huilan, who was staring at her tea cup as if it held state secrets. He thought of the ghost in the park, the fierce bureaucrat, the woman who had just executed a paper marriage with the efficiency of a military campaign.
"I saw a person who knew where she was going," he said, turning back to the General. "In a world where many people are lost, that is… very striking."
Guo Huilan translated. She paused for a half-beat on the last phrase before delivering it in a neutral tone. The General's stony face gave nothing away.
He took a sip of tea. The silence stretched. Then: "And your plans? Will you take my daughter to India? Make her a… mill owner's wife?"
The trap. Rajendra felt it snap shut around the question. He met the General's gaze, channeling every bit of sincere, confused young man he could muster.
"Sir, your daughter has her own path. I have mine. We met on the road. Where we go from here… we will decide together." He leaned forward slightly, the stiff tunic creaking. "But I would not ask a hawk to live in a chicken coop."
Another silence, longer this time. Then, General Guo Feng gave a single, slow, deliberate nod. Rajendra felt a surge of relief so strong he nearly sighed. His sasur had not, it seemed, decided to become his asur today.
The General stood. He looked at his daughter. "You have chosen." The words were heavy. Then he turned to Rajendra, reached into his pocket, and produced a small, beautifully wrapped box. He placed it on the table.
"For signing contracts," Guo Huilan translated. "He says, 'See that you use it wisely.'"
Rajendra took the box. It was heavy. Inside was a stunningly expensive-looking gold fountain pen. It was a gift. It was also a warning: I am watching your deals, your signatures, your life.
The General left as silently as he had arrived.
When he was gone, Guo Huilan let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for an hour. "You did well," she said, her voice quieter. "The hawk and chicken line was… very risky. He likes animals. And metaphors. It was acceptable."
"Is he convinced?"
"He is not unconvinced. That is a victory." She nodded at the pen. "Keep that. It is a token of his… attention."
"It's not bugged, is it?" Rajendra asked, only half-joking.
She looked at him. "Of course it is. Do not say anything important near it."
He was still processing that when a young, pale-faced cadre in a rumpled uniform hurried into the lounge, spotted Guo Huilan, and rushed over. He spoke in a frantic, hushed whisper.
Her face, which had just begun to relax, tightened into a mask of cold anger. She stood up abruptly.
"There is a problem," she said to Rajendra. "A factory in Songjiang District. A boiler explosion. A joint-venture project I approved. The local bosses are trying to hide it, keep it out of the reports. Workers are trapped." The professional detachment was gone; this was raw, furious concern.
"I must go," she said, already moving.
Rajendra stood too. "I'll come with you."
She stopped, turning back. "Why? This is not your concern. It is messy. Dangerous."
He thought of his father, dying in a mill accident. He thought of the impersonal cruelty of machines and neglect. He shrugged, slipping the heavy pen into his stiff tunic pocket. "Husbandly support," he said, his voice dry. "And I know a thing or two about factory floors. And pressure."
For a long second, she just stared at him. Then she gave another of her sharp nods. "Very well. Come. But stay behind me. Do not speak unless spoken to. And do not," she added, "touch anything."
"Not even the bugged pen?"
"Especially not the pen."
As they hurried out of the hushed, timeless lounge into the noisy Shanghai night, Rajendra felt the absurdity of it all wash over him again. A few hours ago, he was having metaphorical tea with his new warlord father-in-law. Now, he was heading into an industrial disaster with his paper-tiger wife.
He followed her into a waiting car, the door slamming shut on the world of polite fictions. The night ahead promised only harsh, unforgiving truths. And strangely, he was ready for it.