A Long Way Home

by Mitali Meelan

  ‘Some guy named Veer,’ she said. That rang a bell but I couldn’t quite place where I’d heard the name. ‘He even called here a couple of times, wanting to ask what exactly the creative team did, but didn’t want to actually talk to anyone from the creative team.’

  ‘Sounds like a creep,’ Bina said, stuffing her mouth with her frankie. She had opened up a lot since she first arrived in the office.

  ‘Or maybe just someone who wants a job and is trying to figure out a way to get in,’ Gayatri said. ‘I did my research before I applied for the job. The more you’re prepared, the better your chances.’

  ‘Was it worth it, though? Joining this place,’ Sunny, the office boy, asked. The conversation on this table jumped from one topic to another and the transition was sometimes so smooth, you’d never understand how you got from discussing trans-fat foods to arguing about who was responsible for World War I.

  Sunny’s question brought in some beats of silence and then a bombardment of opinions.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Gayatri spoke after a few others. She had worked here for three years. ‘Hectic. But what job isn’t? I just hope they hire more people in my department. Half my day is just wasted in replying to emails. Can never do the actual work, then.’

  Email.

  My thoughts screeched to a halt, snapping back to present. I had left my computer unlocked and my personal email account was open for all to see, the one where I wrote articles for my blog and posted them using the office internet. If I was caught, I’d probably be fired, verbally at least.

  Glancing over at Nyra, who was now on her feet, preparing to leave her desk, I picked up the phone on the small three-legged wooden table by the colossal rack of old issues and dialled my extension.

  ‘Forget work for one moment, bro,’ Abhishek said to me. Before I could respond to him, Nyra picked up.

  ‘Hey, sorry to trouble you, Arihant here.’ Her gaze raised to meet mine and I might have imagined it, but I saw the corner of her eye welled up. She wasn’t clear through the glass door.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, her voice trembling only slightly. What the hell was wrong?

  ‘I forgot to lock my computer,’ I told her. ‘Can you please do it?’

  ‘Sure.’ She sat back down in my seat, vanishing behind the divider.

  ‘Done,’ she said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’ Then I paused, almost asking her if she wanted to join us for lunch. Sometimes a person needs to be invited twice before she can feel included. But with a few pairs of eyes on me, I decided it was best to postpone the chat. When I hung up, she didn’t immediately get up from my seat. In fact, she stayed seated for quite some time, which made me wonder if she was crying.

  I was convinced something was wrong when Nyra received a firing from Heena that evening for the first time since she’d joined, and going by the look of mortification on her face, her first in life.

  Nyra was at the computer when Heena marched up to her and dropped a file on the desk, making the girl jump and stagger to her feet. ‘What mail have you sent to Mr Naik?’ Heena demanded, her voice loud enough to alert everyone in the room.

  ‘Mr Nair…’ Nyra’s face scrunched with focus, trying to remember.

  ‘Are you even paying attention to the work you’re doing?’ Heads turned, eyes lingered on the scene. Nyra glanced down at her computer, scurrying to find the mail, I suppose.

  The sound of a few clicks, then something on the computer made Nyra’s eyes go wide. ‘You see?’ Heena said, pointing an accusing finger at it. Nyra pursed her lips. ‘You sent him the wrong invoice and just leaked to him the payments we make to our freelancers; now he knows he gets paid significantly less than the others.’ Heena crossed her arms. ‘Do I pay you for such blunders? Sloppy work and sleepy head.’

  Nyra barely whispered, probably knowing the words would do nothing to rectify the situation. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t give me your futile apologies. Tell me how we can resolve this.’

  I wanted to stand up, ask everyone who stared at them to mind their own business and request Heena to be kinder, or at least, speak softly. But I wasn’t allowed to interfere. So I only prayed for Nyra to get through this without crying.

  ‘He just called to tell me he was disappointed in us,’ Heena barked.

  ‘I’ll mail him back apologizing,’ Nyra said, her voice surprisingly calm. ‘I’ll let him know I messed up the numbers. That they aren’t true.’

  Heena stared her down, contemplating. ‘Save the mail in the draft before you send it, whatever it is. I’ll read it before it goes out.’ Nyra nodded once.

  Then, something happened that I hadn’t really seen before. Heena touched her arm lightly and Nyra almost jerked back. ‘I know you’re still learning and have a lot to do, but you can’t be careless. This looks bad on the part of the magazine, not just you. I am going to raise his fees, but that will be unfair to the more talented artists on our team,’ she explained. It was weird because Nyra’s lower lip trembled slightly at that. Harshness didn’t make her emotional. Kindness did.

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ Nyra assured.

  ‘It better not or you’ll be one letter away from being fired.’ Heena gave her a once-over before picking up her file and vanishing out the door.

  Nyra took a moment to compose herself, then sat down slowly. I tried not to look at her, but I couldn’t help peek. She was typing, her eyes fixated forward. She didn’t look sad; she just looked detached and numb, which I knew was worse.

  At my apartment after dinner, I was on the bed, and only my side of the room looked lived in. The other side was untouched, the sheets tangled with the blanket on the edge. An anclean house didn’t necessarily irk me, but when I could see something off for more than a day, I get an urge to fix it.

  And I did. I straightened the sheets and tossed the unclean shirt, lying on the bed for days, in the washing machine. The ghost might as well do something for me in return. If it noticed at all.

  Once that was out of the way, I got an urge to fix someone else.

  I had been thinking of talking to her all day. She left office some time after me. While I was leaving, she was in the washroom. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her without attracting attention. Actually, I did, when she worked quietly all afternoon and evening, frowning at her computer, only occasionally stretching her neck or closing her eyes. I just didn’t know how or where to begin.

  So now, lying on my bed at eleven in the night, hoping she’d be awake and willing to reply, I typed a text.

  Hello, Arihant here. Just wanted to check in on you. Are you fine?

  I deleted that, then stuck only with the introduction. Baby step.

  Hey, Arihant here.

  It felt weird to communicate with her like this, where she wasn’t in my direct range of vision. It was like meeting someone you’d been talking with through texts and calls for the first time, only reversed. I guess it just took time getting used to. She replied at 11.14.

  Arihant? she sent first. Hey.

  I began to type something, but I saw the top of our chat turn to ‘typing’ and waited.

  Nyra: All good with work?

  That’s the downside of never discussing anything beyond work with someone. Whenever you want to simply chat, you need to say so first.

  Me: Yeah. I just texted to check in on you. Feeling well?

  She took a long time to get back, which made me wonder if she’d thought I was being intrusive. But her reply gave way to an hour-long conversation.

  Nyra: Yes.

  Me: What were you doing? I hope I didn’t disturb you.

  Nyra: Nothing.

  Nyra: No, you didn’t.

  She stuck a smile with it, probably to sound convincing.

  Me: A person speaks robotically only in two situations. When he is boring or when he is sad. By the looks of it, you seem to be the second.

  Nyra: Maybe I am the first one? Simply boring.

  Me: Not possible.
Boring people do not intrigue me. I don’t think about them at eleven-thirty in the night, tired but unable to sleep.

  Nyra: There’s nothing to me that is intriguing.

  Me: Nothing at all? No hobbies, no passions, no I-love-discovering-indie-music-no-one-has-ever-heard-of-because-it-makes-me-feel-like-I’m-different obsession?

  Nyra: Wow.

  Nyra: Are you? Obsessed with it, I mean.

  Me: Yes. Indie music, like love, is a pearl found in the depths of the ocean. Only those who are willing to take a dive get to hold it.

  Nyra: I have never heard of any.

  Me: Which proves my point.

  There was a lingering pause and I waited for her to say something, to give me a sign that said she was interested in keeping the conversation going. Thankfully, she did.

  Nyra: Any suggestions?

  Me: Tell me what mood you’re in.

  Nyra: Um, maybe something with a good beat, but slow.

  Me: No. Not what you want to listen to. Tell me what you’re feeling right now. Churned out, at peace, sleepy, moody, angry, sad, happy. That kind.

  Nyra: Broken.

  For a moment, I stared at the word. Then she went offline. It left me speechless because this was the most vulnerable I’d seen her be with anyone. It almost felt like a responsibility.

  ‘Ashtray’ by Vihang Khatri. I wrote back. ‘The Wisp Sings’ by Winter Aid. I added another song to the list, not an Indie one, but one that I felt she needed to hear. ‘Not Alone’ by Red.

  She replied after twenty minutes.

  Nyra: They are beautiful.

  Before I could say anything, she texted again.

  Nyra: Can I ask you something?

  I propped myself up on my elbows and typed: Sure.

  Nyra: Were you ever forced to let go of someone for your own good, even though it hurt?

  She hit the mark with that.

  Me: Yes.

  Nyra: Then you might know. Some people nearly destroy us and we decide to distance ourselves from them. But once they are gone, why can’t we feel whole and happy again?

  Me: Maybe because they take a part of us we cherished with them, the part that made us smile, gave us the joy we’d only read about. With the bad, the good leaves too.

  Nyra: But does it end?

  Nyra: The hurt. Whatever it is.

  Me: Not really. Unlike objects or even broken bones, the heart can’t be mended with tools. Time will numb the pain, not make it go away.

  Nyra: That didn’t make me feel any better.

  Me: Well, that’s reality for you.

  When Nyra didn’t say anything for a while, I asked her: Want to read something?

  Nyra: Sure

  I copied and pasted something I’d written a few days ago for Arvi.

  To the girl who keeps coming back, but never stays, who is sometimes close and around, sometimes so far she can’t be seen, but always just out of my reach:

  Welcome home, traveller. Remember this house, these walls? Peeling paint and faded colours, dusty worn furniture and used lanterns. Everything is just the way you left it.

  The only difference is that the sun peeks in through the ruddy curtains in the morning now and lights up every dark corner of this house. It has learned to mend its broken tiles and open up to the light. I knew you’d return to warm up once you were drenched in the rain, realized how cold it is out there.

  Welcome home.

  Make yourself comfortable, brew yourself a cuppa coffee, snuggle into the warm blankets and let the pillows soak in your tears.

  But please don’t stay too long. For the house will remember the sound of your voice, the familiar drum of your fingers on the table top, the touch of your feet on its floor and the earthy scent of your body. It will awaken to your presence and build hopes instead of walls. It will block the sunbeams because you will bring in your own light. And when you step out after you have lived in long enough, it will crumble again.

  So please don’t stay long, traveller, for the house has built itself up once. It won’t be able to again.

  Nyra: Who wrote it?

  Me: Yours truly.

  Nyra: You have a gift with words.

  Me: Well, I hope so. Otherwise, I’d be kicked out of my job.

  She sent a smiling face.

  Nyra: Thank you.

  Me: For lending an ear, for sharing the piece of writing, for distracting you… which one?

  Nyra: All of the above?

  Me: You’re welcome. And don’t think about the person too much. I’m sure you have a better someone in your fate.

  Nyra: Isn’t that what we usually say to make the other person feel better?

  Me: Did it? Make you feel better, I mean.

  Nyra: Sort of.

  Me: Then, that makes it worth it.

  Our conversation stopped there. We didn’t wish each other ‘good night’ and I didn’t feel the need to conclude the conversation. So after we both went quiet, I simply exited the chat.

  CHAPTER 12

  W

  hen I walked out of the office building a few evenings later, I saw Nyra waiting across the road, looking up and down the bustling traffic, her phone in her hand. Her hair was down, soft tresses on one side. The bow-thing she used to tie back her hair was curled around her wrist like a bracelet. This was the first time I was seeing her without her signature high ponytail. It felt … different, in a good way, like finding a new quirk in your long-time friend and taking a moment to associate it with the person.

  She had left half an hour ago. I didn’t think she would still be hanging around. Crossing the road, I approached her. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘What are you still doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for a call,’ she replied. ‘A friend is coming to pick me up today.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets. I wondered if it was a guy. ‘Anything special?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow and they are taking me somewhere.’

  My eyebrows shot up. From the tone of her voice, you might think someone was dead in her family. ‘It’s your birthday,’ I repeated slowly, just to make sure I had heard her right. ‘And you sound like you’ve just been deported or something.’

  She sighed, but didn’t answer. Her eyes darted behind me. ‘Please don’t tell anyone in the office.’

  ‘That it’s your birthday?’

  She nodded.

  I watched her for a second, kohl-lined eyes and lips freshly painted. She seemed to have tried her best to get ready for this supposed party in her overly formal attire. ‘Well,’ I said, playing along, ‘only if you promise to give me a treat on Monday.’

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. ‘Okay.’

  ‘How long do you have to wait?’

  ‘About half an hour, I suppose.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wait in the office?’

  She grimaced, pulled her bag closer to her. ‘With Heena in one of her moods? I’ll pass.’

  I scoffed. ‘Do you want me to accompany you?’ I asked, hoping she’d say yes. ‘I’m not in a hurry.’

  She watched a bus rattle away. ‘No, it’s okay. I don’t want to trouble you.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m in no hurry.’

  Nyra turned to find a spot we could wait at and suggested Rise & Shine, an upbeat colossal coffee shop behind us. The brown wooden-textured walls made you feel like you were inside a chocolate cake factory. Life quotes hung on walls; the counter case lined up bottled beverages and pastries and the smell of coffee was strong in the air.

  This was the first time I’d come in here. It just seemed like a place that’d burn a hole in your pocket with one visit. And I barely got past the month when I lived thriftily.

  I guess today was an exception.

  ‘So, any plans for tomorrow, except the surprise your friends have planned for you?’ I asked once we settled into chairs the size of mini-sofas.

  ‘None that I know of,’ she answered while studying the menu. �
�I hope my dad is home tomorrow.’

  ‘Where would he be otherwise?’

  ‘Working, mostly. He rarely gets time off.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He has his own company.’ She set the monochrome menu card aside and nodded to a server. ‘He’s into event management.’

  ‘Oh.’ Not sure why I was surprised. ‘Right.’

  ‘Can I take your orders?’

  ‘A black coffee for me,’ she said, then turned to me. I got a glimpse of its price in the menu lying open on the table. 650 bucks for a coffee that didn’t even have milk.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Same,’ I told him before he left with the card.

  Trying not to think about the bill, I poured myself a glass of water. ‘So tell me, why you don’t look as excited as one ideally would on her birthday. I’m sure getting pampered a little can’t be that bad.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘I am not really in a place to be celebrating life. In fact, I’m not sure if I want a party at all.’

  I poured some water for her too. ‘Why so?’ I asked, not entirely sure if she’d tell me. And she didn’t, for some moments. Just when I thought she wasn’t going to, she pulled in a breath, and with it, seemingly, her courage.

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’ I looked up at her, curious and nodded. ‘That day, when I… I messed up the mail, I was … I had broken up with someone.’ Her each word was punctuated, like an old car moving forward jerkily.

  ‘Was it the same guy who met you on the first day of your internship?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You saw that?’

  I shrugged, taking a sip of my water. ‘He was a sore sight.’

  That brought a smile to her face. She let out a sigh, pressed the corners of her eyes with her forefinger and thumb. ‘I have been with him for the past three years, on and off. The first time we broke up was when … he,’ she faltered, ‘he was dating someone else. I was stupid enough to give him another chance, but then he did something worse.’

  We two seemed to have a lot in common. ‘He cheated the second time as well?’ I offered gently.

  She shook her head. ‘No. It would have been better if he had. At least that way, I wouldn’t have been the centre of his world all the time.’