m. The leaflet showed pictures of Kumar and Patel, doctored with bloodstains, and the headline: “RIP THE ‘GREAT’ AND THE ‘GOOD.’”
Santosh caught sight of a police car in the road and watched the young agitator shove his pamphlets into a backpack and melt into the crowd. He pocketed his own, moving on, wondering about the mood in the city.
There was no doubting the mood at the building occupied by ResQ Insurance. Fear and paranoia ruled over a reception area that teemed with security guards. Santosh passed through a metal detector where his cane was inspected—not very efficiently: the blade inside remained undiscovered—and then he was approached by a guard wielding a wand of some kind.
Finally he made his way in the elevator up to the seventeenth floor of the steel-and-glass tower. Five floors of the building were entirely occupied by ResQ Insurance, a company that had built its fortune by taking advantage of lower health care costs in India.
Founded by two brothers from Cleveland, ResQ had originally started out as a third-party administrator for the large insurance companies that found it more efficient to allow an outsider to process claims and perform other administrative services. Given that back-office tasks were easily outsourced to India, ResQ had built up a strong team in Gurgaon. At that time the company had been known by a different name.
The company’s NYU-educated CEO, Jai Thakkar, had realized India presented an opportunity to offer medical insurance at significantly lower premiums, and he had succeeded in putting together an investor consortium to buy out the founders. He had changed the name of the company and then put into action his plan to offer low American insurance premiums linked to medical services in India. Thakkar’s idea had worked wonders and ResQ was now one of the most profitable insurance companies in the US, with the bulk of its operations in India even though the majority of its customers lived in America.
Santosh exited the elevator on the seventeenth floor and entered a world of soft carpets, deep leather sofas, and understated elegance. He felt slightly intimidated, partly owing to his disheveled appearance.
He passed another security check. Two more armed guards with wands. This time he was asked if he was able to walk without the cane. He agreed that he was. In that case, could he collect it after his meeting with Mr. Thakkar?
Next came Thakkar’s secretary, who surveyed him with a snooty air then led him through corridors to a large corner office with views of the other towers in the business district.
Thakkar was on the phone but hung up when he saw Santosh enter. He rose from behind his desk to shake Santosh’s hand. “I had a call from Denny, the CEO of the National Association of Insurance Commissioners, saying that I had to see you,” he said, friendly enough.
Santosh nodded. “Thank you for meeting me,” he said as he sat. “I was hoping you could help me understand the economics of medical tourism.”
He glanced at the credenza that ran along one side of Thakkar’s desk. On it was a photograph of Thakkar along with Mohan Jaswal. “Where was that taken?” he asked.
“NYU alumni meet,” replied Thakkar, the word “alumni” like the buzzing of a bee due to his nasal twang. “Both of us attended but many years apart. He went first to attend a program on journalism during the period that he was posted there by the Indian Times. I earned my MBA from NYU several years later. We became friends because of the alumni association.”
Santosh kept his expression neutral, not wanting to register a reaction. Thinking, Thakkar and Jaswal. Friends.
Thakkar looked like the typical Indian-American on Wall Street. Well educated, groomed, and urbane. Indian residents deridingly called them ABCDs—“American-Born Confused Desis,” the word “desi” implying Indian descent. Thakkar’s parents had moved from Delhi to America in the seventies but there were enough family ties in Delhi for him to call it home.
“So, coming back to my question,” said Santosh, “I was wondering whether American clients come to India simply on account of lower prices for procedures or because they are able to obtain vital transplant organs that they would be unable to procure back home.”
Thakkar’s face fell. He recovered quickly, though. He was used to dealing with difficult questions from the press and the regulators. “India has become a preferred destination because of the excellent doctors, modern infrastructure, plentiful and qualified nursing staff, and lower prices. Recent technology upgrades and modernization of facilities have made India’s hospitals very attractive to foreign clients.”
Thakkar’s cell phone began to ring. He looked at the number flashing on the screen. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said, getting up from his chair. “This one is urgent.” He gestured for Santosh to remain seated while he took the call in the adjoining conference room.
Santosh got up as soon as Thakkar left and walked over to the desk phone. Looked at the last call, memorized the number, and then texted Neel to run a trace on it. Then he went back to his chair, sat down, and waited for Thakkar.
“I have just one more question to ask,” he said when Thakkar returned.
“Fire away,” smiled Thakkar.
“Why have you beefed up security in the building? Not frightened, by any chance, are you, Mr. Thakkar?”
The smile slid from Thakkar’s face for good. Shortly afterward, Santosh was shown from the office.
Chapter 58
GALI PARANTHE WALI was a narrow street in the Chandni Chowk area of Delhi that was famous for the multitude of shops selling parathas—or stuffed bread, a culinary favorite of North India.
Nisha found herself in a shop no bigger than a closet, along with one of her college friends, Abha, now a senior columnist for a tabloid. She wrote the lifestyle column.
Abha, a strikingly beautiful Punjabi woman, ordered parathas for both of them without bothering to consult Nisha. They quickly sat down on two of the empty chairs in the shop and waited for their lunch.
Nisha would have preferred to meet at the newspaper’s editorial office but Abha was researching an article on the street food of Delhi and had requested Nisha tag along. Nisha had obliged. Not because she particularly savored the food but because Abha always knew the latest gossip in Delhi. Which businessman was down on his luck, which man or woman was having an extramarital affair, which politician had indulged in an outrageously corrupt deal … there was nothing she wasn’t up to date on.
Their food arrived. Stuffed with potato, peas, and cauliflower, the piping-hot breads were served along with sweet tamarind and mint chutney. Abha tucked in. How does she manage to look so good with all that junk going into her? wondered Nisha.
“What’s the matter?” asked Abha, stuffing another delectable morsel in her mouth with her glossy-pink-nail-polished fingers. “Why aren’t you eating?” Nisha reluctantly took a bite.