‘Oh dear. Why do the two of you work till you pass out? I told Ishaan the same. He has got these dark circles that are bigger than his eyes. He works until his back breaks. Which girl will marry him if he looks like a zombie? I told him to take a…’
I pulled the phone away from my ear, pressed my fingers to my eyes and shut them tight, feeling a prick at the back. ‘Why did you call, Ma?’
‘…doesn’t want to meet Sudha’s daughter.’ She paused, registered my question, then sighed deeply. ‘Come home this Saturday for dinner. We will celebrate Ishaan’s birthday properly. With each of you in four different corners of the city, we all can use some good family time.’
I stopped short of grunting. ‘Have you asked Ishaan if that’s what he wants?’ I asked. The last time we planned something for him, he shut the door in my face.
‘Of course, I told him first. No surprises this time. And he is okay with it. Besides, it’s not all about him. You’re promoted too.’
‘Confirmed,’ I corrected.
‘Right. And it’s an achievement. Baba wants to celebrate that too.’ The mention of his name was a nail on the coffin. Not that it seemed like a bad idea, though. Another day of getting to eat Ma-cooked food only meant another day of a satisfied, good night’s sleep.
CHAPTER 5
B
y the end of that week, Splash! had three interns—a photographer named Nyra Basu, a marketing intern, Abhishek Mathur and an editorial coordinator named Bina Sahani. Abhishek sat with the marketing team close to the conference-slash-luncheon room at the other end of the office. Nyra sat to my right, next to her senior, Heena, the creative team head.
To my left was my junior, Bina, tall and thin enough to be undernourished, bright and fluent in English but fresh out of junior college. Her language and her written skills, by whatever I read in her test, surpassed most grown-ups with multiple degrees, but in person she was just a kid, wide eyed, a little terrified, tongue tied but willing to learn.
‘I’m done going through these,’ she said, holding out the previous three magazine issues that I’d asked her to read when I returned to my desk. It seemed she was done a long time ago, for she was on her phone flipping through Kindle pages. I dumped my diary on my table. It had been a long meeting with Manish, a crash lecture on how I should delegate work and deal with a junior.
I took a seat. ‘Are you familiar with the kind of topics we cover?’ She nodded. ‘Now I want you to come up with more topics that we can commission to bloggers and writers. Start with what you think youth would like to read about the most. You can use the internet for whatever research and reference you need, but don’t outright steal the ideas. Once you’re done, show them to me. We’ll shortlist the topics that are unique and interesting.’
‘Okay.’
I turned on my computer and as it flickered on, my mind drifted to Arvi’s messages. After the phone call with my mom during the house party, my stomach felt queasy and my mouth watered. I rushed to the bathroom just in time to upturn the alcohol into the toilet. I sat by the sink for a while, trying to get rid of the dizzy feeling. Someone knocked on the bathroom door, then shouted from outside, ‘You okay, buddy?’
I think I said ‘yes’, but I’m not sure. I walked out a while later. This time, it wasn’t the thought of beer, but food that enticed me into the kitchen. There was no dinner, only snacks. I grabbed some stale bread from the refrigerator, sandwiched it with pieces of leftover chicken and chips circulating around and stuffed my stomach with it.
By the time I was done, some people had left, but most were still hanging around. The couple was no longer in my room, which was a relief. I changed my sheets, all in a strange daze, and crashed on my bed, forgetting my phone and the messages.
When I woke up the next morning, with my head heavy and a sharp buzz shooting through my skull, I realized I was late. I called office, told them I had a headache so I might be late. I had a pretty clean record so far, so it wasn’t difficult to get them to agree. Then I stayed in bed for a while, shaking off the sleep. When I got up, I saw the ghost in its place, completely still under a white layer of linen except for the slow rise and fall of its breathing.
Outside my bedroom door, I stepped on an empty can, crushing it, and took in the wretched crime scene in front of me. Someone was sprawled on the sofa, snoring, another was lying on the ground, his mouth open.
My two flatmates were in their room, their door closed. I ran my fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp and suddenly remembered the messages. As if it were the morning newspaper, I rushed back to my room. My phone was dead, so I plugged in the charger. Then I brushed, bathed, got ready. There was nothing left to eat. So I drank the last few drops of milk from the container, standing in the kitchen surrounded by empty beer cans and glass bottles of whiskey that I didn’t know we had. The sink stank of barf, which I only hoped was rotten food left in the open and not actual spew.
Once I felt alive again, I opened the kitchen window to let some fresh air in. Unlike the house, the road was noisy. Autos and cars honked below on the street. But the morning buzz of the city got me going. My phone flickered back to life and I read Arvi’s story in the bus.
It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. Only this time, it was a different setting; she was with a different crowd and she was drunk, which rarely happened. Almost never, as far as I knew her. As the story progressed, the words became garbled, gibberish with more spelling errors. But I got the gist of it.
Arvi was with her cousins in Goa, all were drunk and she had started talking about her ex she had after me, who ‘was a jerk and out of her life’ now. But more drinks down and the conversation swerved on me. Apparently, all her cousins were calling her stupid for leaving me. And she’d written: I believe that. I believe them.
Following that, only a couple of minutes later, there was:
I’m sorry I’m boring you with all this bs. I am sure you don’t care. You can just ignore this whole thing after you read it in the morning. You can delete this chat even without reading it. No issues.
She sent a bunch of random emoticons following this sentence, each with more star marks. Four emoticons later, she finally found what she was looking for. The peace sign.
I meant to send that. After that, she sent: Anyway. You can ignore me, but I just wanted to get this off my chest. Every person deserves a second chance. I know. But a third? Nope. Nada. Nei. Never.
In spite of myself, I smiled.
I am drinking just thinking about you. Whoops. Sorry, I wasn’t going to tell you that. I know you hate it. I mean, you hated it. Past tense. But what the hell? I might as well. Anyway I have vomited everything—both literally and figuratively. But some people are just worth getting drunk for, ya know?
I miss you, Ari.
I had to keep my phone away for a while to stop the messages from getting to me. It was ridiculous, the kind of effect she had on me without even trying. She could chop off my hand with an axe and I’d still turn to her and ask if the axe was too heavy. And with all those confessional words—which were too many, even for me—I couldn’t help but reply. I might as well be that rat in the loop.
Meet me Sunday afternoon. The Bombay Brew. Don’t be late.
Now sitting in the office, my mind drifted back to her as I typed another mail to a published blogger, letting him know his write-up was selected for the current issue and his copy was on its way. By evening, most of my day’s work remained pending for I had to instruct Bina every step of the way, apart from taking care of my own shit. At seven in the evening, everyone began to wrap up their work. Abhishek and Bina, the new interns, were the first ones to leave.
Once my senior Manish was gone, I rubbed my hand over the back of my neck, feeling the stiffness. I locked my computer, took out the article Bina had edited, and the product description she’d written for the ads page, got off my seat and headed out. I desperately needed a walk.
In the empty well-lit corridor, I checked my pho
ne. There wasn’t any reply from Arvi. Not that I was waiting for it…
I read through the product descriptions, pacing in the passageway, feeling my leg muscles work. This was a back-breaking job of a different kind, one that killed you with comfort. Whatever I read was well written and well punctuated, but Bina had barely changed anything in the edited article, leaving out some glaringly silly mistakes. I marked them as I went, my work only punctuated by office staff leaving, waving goodbye to me on their way.
‘They don’t pay more if you stay back longer, man,’ Vishaal said when he saw me. He was a Creative Team member, a part-timer who only worked with Photoshop.
If Heena was responsible for selecting the pictures, determining their placement in the magazine and coordinating with other teams, he was single-handedly responsible for making the pictures visually appealing.
I gave him our standard low-five that barely made a sound. ‘Will leave in some time. I’m almost done.’
‘Work is unending. You gotta put a stop to it when the day ends.’
‘I know.’
When he left, I glanced out at the city, the skyline rising and falling like waves with the shapes of the buildings, dividing the cluster of souls with only a thin, breakable wall. There were so many people alone in these apartments, living a life that was similar to everyone else’s, yet entirely their own. Even two people in two different buildings lived so close next to each other that they practically breathed the same air, looked at the same sky, heard the same sounds. They lived together for all their lives, yet barely learned each other’s names. That thought sounded tragic. They could find a companion if they only looked out the window long enough. Instead, most of them must have wasted time drinking away in the memory of people lost or gotten away.
‘Um, excuse me?’ a tentative voice called, light as a feather. Shaken away from my reverie, I turned and saw Nyra Basu standing at the entrance of our office. She looked more professional than most people in the office: tucked-in shirt, pants and an overcoat, heels, hair tied back in a high ponytail. Of course, she was yet to understand the kind of culture we followed here. Be comfortable, but be the best at what you do.
‘Are you Arihant Adhikari?’
‘Yes.’
‘There is a call for you.’
‘From?’
‘I … I didn’t ask.’
I frowned, glanced at my wristwatch. It was a quarter past eight. Work-related calls stopped ringing post seven. I sighed, rolled up the papers in my hand and tucked the pen over my ear on my way in. ‘Arihant from Splash! The Pulse of Youth,’ I said into the receiver at my desk. It was a PR call. Nyra walked around me and sat in her seat. ‘Send your mail to our official ID. Yes, write it down. [email protected]. No, there won’t be any need for that. We’ll go through it and get back to you if we use them. Sure, you’re welcome.’
When I hung up, I turned to the girl. ‘Nyra?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She rose to her feet before I could tell her not to.
‘That was a PR call from an agency,’ I told her and she blinked, waiting for me to explain. I scratched an itchy corner over my eyebrow. ‘Do you know what PR is?’
‘Press Release?’
‘Yes. Basically, these people want us to put their products in our magazine. We have one free ads page. We need the content and they need the space. So they’ll call trying to convince us to choose them.’
‘Okay.’
‘Why I’m telling you this is because we share the same phone and at times, when I’m not in my place, you’d need to pick it up and speak with them.’
Her eyes went wide. The nerves; I could relate to it. ‘It’s not that complicated. They do most of the talking and you have an upper hand. They will explain what their product is and you don’t have to remember the details. Once they’re done talking, ask them to send an email to the editorial team. That’s what they mainly need, which you can easily give, right?’ She nodded, knowing she hadn’t a choice. I took out the pen tucked behind my ear, grabbed a sticky note and scribbled the email address, then pasted it on the desk in front of her.
‘Should I write down who called?’ she asked, her eyes on the note.
‘In case of PR, don’t,’ I replied. ‘I’ll get their mails anyway. But if it’s anybody else, a writer or a staff member or even a repeat PR caller asking for me, take down the message and let me know.’
‘Okay.’ Even with heels, she was three inches shorter than me. But then again, I had an unusually tall height.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ I assured her. She gave me a thin smile, barely a tug of her lips on either corner. ‘Also, when you pick up, just tell them the magazine name, preceding your own.’
She nodded. I put Bani’s papers in my drawer. Nyra sat back down in her seat, figuring the conversation was over and I suddenly realized how late it was. ‘By the way,’ I said and she blinked up at me. It was near dark outside, but not enough to sink the city in it yet. ‘Why haven’t you left yet? It’s past eight-thirty.’
She looked outside longingly, like an inmate in a cell might. ‘Heena ma’am is not back yet. I thought I should tell her before I left.’
I noted the empty chair beside her. ‘When did she say she’d be back?’
‘In half an hour,’ she muttered. ‘An hour ago.’
‘Did she ask you to wait?’
‘Not exactly, but I thought it was only professional to inform her…’
I sighed, shaking my head. ‘Another rule. Heena is rarely in her seat. She is busy, as you can tell, either on field or in meetings. As long as you do whatever work she’s assigned you for the day, you don’t have to wait for her. She has come back as late as eleven in the night.’ Her eyes widened at that. They were quite pretty, dark and kohled. ‘Let her know you’ve completed the assigned work and done for the day.’
‘So,’ she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, ‘Should I just write her a note and leave?’
‘Yes. If you don’t want to camp in here all night.’
She seemed to debate that. I could understand her hesitation. Heena wasn’t the friendliest person you’d meet, especially if you were somewhat meek. Heena rarely smiled and was tall in an intimidating way, with a voice that didn’t require a microphone to address a crowd. If she wasn’t demeaningly funny and didn’t admire me for writing content for her recently released photography website, I would have actively avoided her too.
‘I’ll let her know as well, if you want,’ I added.
‘Okay,’ Nyra said finally, relief washing over her face. ‘That will be great. Thank you, sir.’
I was about to ask her not to call me ‘sir’ but she didn’t wait for any more exchange of words. She turned off her computer. It took her less than a minute to pack her bag, sort her desk and write a note listing what she’d done for the day. I couldn’t help but smile at the speed. Poor girl. It was as if she’d held her pee in for too long and finally gotten a release.
When she left, our L-shaped row was completely empty. I pulled out my diary and typed out the blogpost in a Word document, then pasted it on my blog and hit ‘Publish’. I desperately needed to buy a laptop. It’d been a long time I’d been using either cyber café or, since I got this job, the office computer to keep it updated. It was tiring, to write everything down on my phone or in a diary and type out or edit the same shit on the computer. Blogposts were comparatively easy, but novel writing became tedious with this double work approach.
But the job still didn’t pay enough for me to save and buy one. With rent and food expenses, my account, by the end of the month, was always a dry well. Laptop was still a far-fetched dream.
CHAPTER 6
I
smelled something delicious as soon as I entered home. A cake baking. Opening the door to me, Baba went back to watching his TV. Mom was calling out to Saloni, who was in the room blasting music and studying her face in the mirror. When I entered the room, I threw my jacket over her head.
‘Hey!’ She yanked it away and threw it back at me, but I dodged it.
‘What are you looking at?’ I asked her, placing my bag on the bed. ‘Your face is still the same.’
She stuck out her tongue. As a fifteen-year-old grown up, she was quite mature.
‘Mom’s calling you, by the way,’ I informed her and opened the window to let some air in.
‘I know,’ she mumbled, barely paying attention as she stared at her reflection, then turned side to side to check the rest of her body. I shook my head and pulled out a T-shirt and shorts from the drawer of my clothes I kept in the house for nights like these. I took a quick shower, relieved with the thought of getting a good sleep tonight, with no pressure of waking up early. In fact, waking up at all. I planned on getting knocked out for a good twelve hours, more if I could squeeze in extra time. Although I had to be up by twelve to reach the café on time to see Arvi.
That tiny part of my day tomorrow seemed daunting and, admittedly, just as exciting. But before I could dwell on it for any more than a few seconds, the water stopped flowing from the shower. With soap still in my hair, I went over to the sink and cleared it off with cold hard water. By the time I was done and dressed for a comfortable night, the sleep enticing me more than the family dinner, Ishaan was home too. I dumped my dirty office clothes in the laundry basket with a hole at one end. I mentally made a note of buying a new one over the next week.
‘Are you done?’ Ishaan rapped gently on the door and asked in a low disinterested tone.
I stepped out of the bathroom. He squeezed his way in and shut the door in my face. No ‘hello’, no ‘good to see you’. No smile. We were seeing each other after a long time, since his birthday. Not that I expected him to do any of those things.
‘The shower is not working,’ I said loudly to the closed door and waited to hear a reply. ‘You might have to use the sink.’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ he answered.
So that was that.
A Long Way Home Page 3