The Moscow that swallowed Rajendra was a world of grey concrete and grim faces. The air in November was a knife, smelling of coal smoke and wet wool. He'd asked the taxi driver from Sheremetyevo Airport for a quiet place to stay, "not too central." The driver, a man with a face like a clenched fist, grunted and drove him to a bleak residential district in the outskirts. The buildings were identical concrete blocks, stained by decades of damp and neglect.
The apartment he rented was a single room in a communal flat. An old babushka, the keyholder, eyed his Indian face with suspicion but took his dollars without a word. The room was cold, with a small iron radiator that clanked weakly. It had a narrow bed, a chair, and a view of another identical building. It was, as he'd requested, about five kilometers from a district of slightly better apartments rumored to house mid-level military staff.
He spent his first two days walking. He saw the long, silent lines outside bread shops. He saw the hollow-eyed men selling single cigarettes and family heirlooms on the sidewalks. He saw the stark contrast between the monumental, imposing government buildings and the crumbling homes of the people. The despair was a physical thing, a weight in the air. This wasn't just an economic problem; it was a civilization holding its breath, waiting for the ceiling to collapse.
His cover was a textile merchant from Bombay looking for "export opportunities." He visited the official Soviet trade office, where bored clerks in ill-fitting suits gave him pamphlets on Ukrainian wheat and Siberian timber. He made notes, asked vague questions, and learned nothing.
On the evening of the third day, the chill seeped into his bones. The babushka manager, perhaps feeling a sliver of pity for the shivering foreigner, told him of a local stolovaya—a workers' canteen—that served hot food and had a "bar," which meant a corner with a bottle of vodka and some glasses.
The place was called Stolovaya No. 17. It was a large, noisy room lit by harsh fluorescent lights, thick with the smell of cabbage soup, boiled meat, and cheap tobacco. He took a bowl of shchi—sour cabbage soup—and a piece of dark bread to a small table in the corner, trying to be invisible.
He wasn't invisible.
A group of three Russian men in their late twenties, wearing the thick jackets of factory workers or low-level technicians, noticed him. After some nudging and muttered discussion, one of them, a broad-shouldered man with a broken nose, approached.
"Anglichanin?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Nyet. Indus," Rajendra replied. Indian.
The man's face broke into a gap-toothed grin. "India! Raj Kapoor! Awara Hoon!" He hummed a few bars of the famous tune, badly.
Rajendra managed a smile. "Yes. Raj Kapoor."
This was an invitation. The man gestured vigorously to their table. Not wanting to cause a scene, Rajendra picked up his bowl and went over. They introduced themselves: Yuri, the one with the broken nose; Pavel, thin and nervous; and Leonid, who had kind eyes. They were mechanics at a truck factory, they said. Their English was a collection of broken phrases, his Russian was worse. Communication was a chaotic mix of hand gestures, simple words, and goodwill.
A bottle of vodka, clear and unlabeled, appeared on the table. Yuri filled four small glasses to the brim.
"Za druzhbu!" For friendship! He downed his in one go.
Rajendra had never been a drinker. The local brew in Mumbai was mild. This was different. The liquid hit his throat like a fireball, then settled into a warm, dangerous pool in his stomach. He forced a smile, trying not to cough.
They toasted to India. To the Soviet Union. To peace. To beautiful women. Glass after glass was poured. The world began to soften, the edges blurring. The harsh canteen light grew warm. Their broken conversation about life in India versus life in Moscow felt profound.
At some point, Yuri started singing a Russian folk song, deep and sad. Pavel joined in. Leonid pounded the table. Drunk and carried away by the strange camaraderie, Rajendra began to sing back. Not a Russian song, but the melody he'd heard a thousand times growing up—"Mera Joota Hai Japani."
The Russians loved it. They roared with laughter, pounding the table harder. They tried to sing along with the nonsense Hindi syllables. For a few loud, blurry minutes, Rajendra wasn't a merchant or a transmigrated soul. He was just a drunk Indian in a Moscow canteen, singing with strangers.
He didn't know what time they stumbled out. The cold hit him like a physical slap, but it did nothing to clear his head. The world tilted. Yuri clapped him on the back, said something he didn't understand, and he and his friends weaved off into the darkness.
Rajendra was alone. The street was poorly lit, lined with skeletal trees. His rented room was… somewhere. He started walking, one foot in front of the other, humming the song from the canteen. "Main idhar chala, udhar chala… har jagah tera hi dhoondhta…" (I wandered here, I wandered there… everywhere I search only for you…). The melancholy tune fit the desolate street.
He turned a corner, not looking, and walked straight into someone.
"Aiy!" he grunted in Hindi, stumbling back.
It was a woman. Tall, even in flat boots. She wore a heavy military-style greatcoat and a fur hat. Her face, illuminated by a distant streetlight, was all sharp angles—high cheekbones, a strong jaw. She had steady him with a hand on his arm. Her grip was solid, unyielding.
"Ty p'yan?" she asked, her voice low and calm. Are you drunk?
"Nahi… bas, thoda sa…" he mumbled, a slurry mix of Hindi and Marathi. "Tum kaun? Janti ho hum kon?" Who are you? Do you who I am?
She stared, not understanding the words but hearing the confusion and the strange, melodic language. Her severe expression didn't change, but her eyes—a clear, focused grey—flickered with a hint of curiosity. She had caught the tune he was humming.
He tried to say something else, to explain, but the vodka and the freezing air conspired against him. A wave of dizziness hit. His legs buckled. He slumped forward, his weight falling against her.
"Blyat," she muttered under her breath, a soft curse of exasperation. She tried to push him upright, but he was a dead weight. She looked up and down the empty, frozen street. Leaving a foreign national—a clearly intoxicated one—to pass out here was not an option. It would mean reports, police, questions she didn't need.
With a resigned sigh, she hauled one of his arms over her shoulders, adjusted her stance, and began half-dragging, half-walking him down the street. She was strong. Her apartment building was just around the next corner.
A few minutes later, she shouldered open the door to a small, tidy flat. It smelled faintly of soap, leather, and boiled coffee. The furniture was sparse, utilitarian, but clean. She guided him to a worn sofa and let him collapse onto it.
Rajendra was out.
The woman, Captain Anya Petrova, 28, a logistics coordinator for the Western Military District, stood over him, hands on her hips. She unbuttoned her greatcoat, revealing a simple wool sweater. She was frustrated. This was trouble. An Indian, drunk, singing. In her district. On her doorstep.
But the curiosity remained. An Indian in Moscow was rare. An Indian singing old film songs in her freezing outskirts neighborhood was… a puzzle. And Captain Petrova disliked unsolved puzzles.
She fetched a rough wool blanket from a cupboard and threw it over him. She turned off the main light, leaving only a small lamp glowing in the corner. She went to her bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
In the dark, Rajendra mumbled in his sleep. The words slipped out in exhausted, drunken Hindi.
"Plan bigad gaya…" (The plan is ruined…)
A pause, then a name, tinged with frustration.
"Elena… saali…" (Elena… damn her…)
In her bed, Anya Petrova lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She didn't understand the words. But she understood the tone—anger, betrayal, a plan gone wrong. And she heard the name. Elena.
A name. A ruined plan. A drunk Indian with money in his pockets (she'd felt it when hauling him) and trouble on his mind.
Trouble, in her experience, was just information that hadn't found its proper channel yet. And in the crumbling Soviet state, information was the only currency that never depreciated.
She closed her eyes, a slow, calculating smile touching her lips in the darkness. The Indian on her sofa was no longer just a problem. He was an opportunity. She would see what the morning brought.