A Long Way Home

by Mitali Meelan

  Honestly, hearing her voice felt so good I was afraid of pinning expectations on it to make my day better. So shoving the thought aside, I said, ‘Well, thanks for that. I really—’

  ‘Hello, Arihant? Ananya here,’ the girl with a deeper voice cut in. ‘Sorry for grabbing Nyra’s phone like that, but really, what is the name of that apparent ghost-mate you live with?’

  ‘Ghost-mate,’ I scoffed. ‘That’s a secret. Sworn by it.’

  ‘Dang it! I really wanted to know,’ her voice went farther away and Nyra was back on line.

  ‘Sorry about that. They’re crazy… No! Not now. He has given it to me.’ The phone was again snatched away from her hand, or so I assumed, for her protests were replaced by another unfamiliar voice. It made me smile and with a pinch in my heart, I realized I’d missed her.

  ‘Hey, Arihant. I was wondering if I could read your novel that you sent to Nyra. The girl has no time to read it and I am dying to.’

  ‘Ah…’ Before I could answer, the phone was back to Nyra.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t read the book yet. But I’ll do it this week. We’ve been caught up in assignments.’

  ‘Liar! She copied the whole thing off the internet!’ I heard her friend say on the other end.

  ‘Um, Ari, can you meet me today? It’s been a while since we had a nice chat.’

  I was glad she was the one who brought it up. We scheduled to meet that Saturday after work and, like an old set of friends, talked about all that had been happening. The words fell out of us in a tumble and we bounced the topics off each other as if we did that all the time. It didn’t feel like there had been weeks of silence between us.

  I told her about my submissions and how I was yet to hear from most of the publishers. Within a month, though, I had received two rejections but she encouraged me to keep hoping. Our chats were irregular, without any set pattern and we usually skipped the pleasantries, like I did today.

  Nyra’s message dropped in. Why don’t you reveal your identity on your blog? You have a strong community of dedicated readers. Your every post gets about twenty to thirty comments. In their own words, you make their day by writing some of those quirky, relatable, odd anecdotes. Then why this crypto-identity?

  Appreciating her choice of words, I replied: I don’t want to get into trouble, for one. I don’t exactly praise most people in my posts and I’m not the confrontational kind. I just want to avoid… being the bad guy.

  Nyra: I have read your blog. I see nothing that could offend someone.

  Me: Not everyone thinks the same.

  Nyra: Really. You don’t put them down. Besides, you haven’t taken anyone’s name, so even after you come out, I don’t think readers will know.

  Me: The people who it’s written about will.

  Nyra: And does it matter?

  She had a point.

  Nyra: Besides, do you really think they read?

  Most of them wouldn’t care much. Or so I hoped.

  Nyra send another text. Your parents know now. So what’s the problem? If you want to get published, you must first come out from under the rock.

  I exited our chat and leaned back in my chair. The clock seemed to move lazily today. It wasn’t even lunch time yet. When Heena and my senior, Manish, left their seats to get to a meeting, I opened up a word doc and began typing.

  I told myself I didn’t have to publish whatever I was writing, a trick that sometimes worked when I was writing something I wasn’t completely comfortable sharing, and whatever I wanted to say poured out authentically. I was surprised I had so much to say.

  This is who I am

  I created my blog because there were aspects of my life that I didn’t like. I tried to find humour in the corners where there were no smiles left to cheer us up. One of those incidences was my dad’s accident. He slipped on the bathroom floor, hit his lower back on the tap, his head against the wall and permanently damaged his spine. Since then, he’s been limping. Of all people, it had to be me who found him on the floor, unconscious.

  Seeing him lying on the stretcher crippled with pain, then in the hospital bed for more than six months, his face no longer that of a man who could ‘do it all’, reality hit me. He was only human and he was growing older.

  Of course, it’s a fact we all know but it’s like oxygen. You only realize the need for its existence when you’re short of it.

  So, I decided to maintain a diary to document good memories so I wouldn’t lose them. You don’t need to write down to remember the bad pieces of your past. They just stick with you like bubble gum under a desk. It’s only the good moments that you need to go to, so when the bad parts have a gun pointed to your head, you can read yourself the better pieces and let the darkness dissolve.

  Maintaining a diary helped to some extent, but I thought nothing of whatever I was writing. Few years later, I was hit with different sets of problems. I had multiple KTs in one exam after another (which my parents are clueless about), Eve didn’t think I was ‘the one’ for her and I was beginning to care less and less about engineering. If anything came out of all those frustrating months of break-up and breaking apart, I realized I was capable of weaving words in a way that didn’t exactly read like a newspaper report. Since then, I had the urge not only to write until my fingers hurt, but also to share what I’d written.

  So that’s what I’ve been doing when nothing life offers makes me happy. I turn to pen and paper and write myself another ending.

  I didn’t create this blog just to vent (although I do admit sometimes I get carried away. But hey, I have got the maximum comments for those posts. So you can’t blame me alone). I created the blog essentially to share. To find a place where I was least likely to be found.

  The truth is there had been a part of me always afraid to face the light. That didn’t mean I didn’t want it in my life; I just didn’t think I was ready for it. But, I guess, you’re never truly ready. The only way to know is to take a leap.

  So this is a leap I’m taking.

  This is daunting as hell. To those who’ve been following my blog know that I gave up engineering to work in a magazine, my parents aren’t exactly happy with the decision, but I went with it anyway. Well, that’s part of the truth. Another part is that I’ve been living alone, been working on a novel and trying to get it published. I thought that I’d come out to the world when I’d have it published. I’d make the grand announcement, revelation, launch, et al.

  Turns out, it isn’t so easy.

  It’s always difficult to talk about your struggles and failures when you haven’t yet succeeded. You’re not a role model, you’re just another example of what not to do. But I’m going to do it anyway.

  I have been sending out query after query and all I’ve heard so far is that I don’t fit into their world. I’m now running out of publishers to approach. It’s only been four months and I’m already losing the confidence to go on. I would like to believe my passion is stronger than that. But there are times when I doubt myself. And it’s a little difficult to keep going when your friends and college-mates are striding towards a brighter future, bagging packages twice as much as you earn, knowing they’d get a far greater scope to rise and grow than you ever will. When the world around you is spinning so fast, it’s sometimes difficult to value your calm equilibrium.

  But this world is made of people like you and me. Then who are we to tell others where they fit in and where they don’t?

  That’s when one of my friends (Nyra, her name. She’s given me the permission to use it. I guess because she knows I don’t have anything bad to say about her. Not yet, anyway. Jokes aside) made me realize I already had something wonderful in my life that I was hiding away from. And that’s you. My readers.

  You support me without even knowing me, and I was afraid of my family and relatives not liking what I do. I realized I was simply looking for encouragement in the wrong places. I already had the support I needed. I just took too long to see it.

&nb
sp; Oscar Wilde once said, ‘Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.’ I believed that. Today, however, I’ve decided I no longer need the mask. It’s good to let your skin feel the sun once in a while. It’s good to finally breathe.

  So here I am in the picture below, Arihant Adhikari, sticking my foot in the door leading to the world of writing and publishing. Standing up and announcing, well, this is who I am.

  Welcome to the simple chaos of my life.

  I put a picture of me at the end of the post and asked readers to shoot questions if they had any in the comment section, except the names of people they’d read about. It was not for their sake. It was for my own. I didn’t want a warrant issued against me. I promised them to write another post answering the questions. When it was fifteen minutes to the lunch hour, I pulled in a deep breath and hit ‘Publish’.

  ISHAAN

  ‘A

  nd this can’t be fixed?’ I asked the supervisor, still hoping to salvage a bit of the massive loss I’d just incurred.

  Right by the end of monsoon, I slammed into a roadblock after a rainstorm hit, two nights in a row, causing havoc in the city. Tossing and turning in bed all night, I wanted nothing more than to take my bike and ride to my restaurant. But as helpless as I was, all I could do was lie awake, listen to the raging wind and violent rattling of windows, the constant patter of rain against it and pray for it to pass.

  The next morning, with my heart beating wildly, I reached the place only to have my worst nightmare come to life. Out of the 6' 8" × 6' '10mm glass windows at the entrance of the restaurant, one had cracked and one had shattered. The wooden bathroom and entrance doors were soaked in water, the plywood damaged seemingly beyond repair. The floor had a foot of water and the six workers were throwing out bucket after bucket. The tiles were fine, but most wooden items floated on the floor, including the cabinet doors lined up to the wall on the side.

  ‘Yes, sir. The windows will have to be replaced,’ Rao said, the site supervisor. ‘Although we can use the plywood after waterproofing it. They are in fairly good shape.’

  I wanted to go one step at a time. ‘How much will the windows cost?’

  ‘Well, it was eighteen per piece. That makes it thirty-six.’

  It wasn’t a large cost in the grand scheme of things, but my budget for interiors had already hit the roof and, including the overhead costs, I had used almost all. I must have had about ten thousand left. The funds that now remained were assigned for pantry, crockery and kitchen appliances. I couldn’t take a penny out of it. ‘What’s the guarantee it won’t happen again?’

  ‘There isn’t, sir. Unless we go for a thicker glass, or a double pane, but that means we’ll have to change the frames too. It will take a longer time and cost much higher.’

  I touched my fingers to the corner of my eyes, pressing them. ‘No, I’ll risk it.’ I had to. ‘What about the plywood?’

  ‘We can use sealant waterproofing. Doesn’t cost a lot and is quicker.’

  ‘Then why wasn’t it proofed in the first place?’ I demanded.

  ‘I’m not sure, sir,’ he said, looking down.

  ‘Hadn’t you specified in the contract that any damage while working would be covered by the company?’ I asked, thinking back to the contract.

  ‘It only considers the damage done by our workers, sir. It does not cover natural causes.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘And that will amount to?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you on that, if you don’t mind. And I’ll also see if we can cover this in maintenance.’ I nodded, watching the men at work, the bright sunny skies sniggering down at me. I wanted to punch the light out of the clouds, shake them until not a drop of water was left to ruin anything else that I’d built up. ‘This is a common problem, sir,’ he consoled as I stared up at the sky, probably thinking I was praying. I looked at him. ‘Rains are like women. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.’

  I knew he was only trying to lighten the mood, but I didn’t have time for his analogies. ‘What’s the work for today?’

  He smoothed his expression, switching to a business-like tone. ‘We’ll fix the damage first. Get this place cleaned up and the wood waterproofed.’

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets. ‘Okay. I’ll come by in the evening.’

  ‘Sir, I suggest we put up the windows at the end, a week before the restaurant is to open. That way, we can eliminate any potential risk of breakage. By then, the season would change too.’

  It was a feasible option, although not quite the best. The undone patches would look odd while I set up the kitchen after the interior was done. There would be a gap of about two months in between. ‘You won’t run away, will you?’

  His eyes widened. ‘Of course not, sir.’

  I patted his shoulder. ‘I’m only kidding. But it’s good to confirm.’

  ‘There is a mail for you,’ Vartika told me as soon I walked into the Copper Club kitchen. Seeing my face, she moved away from the oven. ‘All good?’ I wiped my feet by the door and tossed my bag on the rack.

  I told her what had happened in short, then entered her cabin. She followed me and eased the door close. ‘I’m thinking of selling my bike.’ I stared at her computer as it came to life. ‘I can’t keep pulling out funds from the other departments.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she snapped. ‘Transportation is one of your necessities, even if you don’t think so. You need it just as much as anything else.’

  I didn’t answer as I clicked on my inbox, which was always open below her screen. It took time to load.

  ‘Why don’t you take back the deposit?’ Knowing what she meant, I shook my head. ‘Oh, come on! Don’t be a pathetic egoistic man. You can stay at my place. It won’t butcher your manhood.’

  I gave her a tired look. We’d had this conversation too many times than I cared to count, although this was the first time she had called me pathetic and egoistic. The fact that I wasn’t offended in the least made me wonder just how deeply I had fallen for this woman. ‘You know that’s not why I moved out.’

  ‘Sure it is!’ she fired back. ‘And the reason doesn’t even matter. Be practical and it’s a shame I’ve to tell you that. You still haven’t moved your stuff from my place. You can take back the deposit and terminate the contract.’

  Usually, I’d have countered, but after what happened today, I was beginning to see I had no other choice. If I took back the deposit, I could incur the restaurant losses without having to break my long-term investments. I wondered if this was a sign. ‘Okay,’ I mumbled and clicked on the pictures on the computer screen.

  Vartika sprang forward, lending me an ear. ‘Wait. Did I hear you right?’

  ‘Desperate times,’ I said, preoccupied, then spared her a quick look. ‘Although, you must know this is temporary.’

  She gave a victorious smile. ‘So basically, to convince you, all I needed was some rain.’ I shook my head as she joined me behind the desk. ‘Anyway. I have an application for you,’ she pulled out a drawer and produced a file, a resumè. ‘Anita Lal. I worked with her in Menon Hotels. She’s been there for a decade now, has been looking for a change.’

  I flipped a page. Graduate from Welcome Group, Manipal Academy, specialized in Asian cuisine, hot kitchen. She had an impressive set of specialities, an expert in food anthropology and menu planning and passionate about food safety. Which brought me to my next, more important question. ‘What’s her current CTC?’

  ‘About ten,’ Vartika said under her breath and I raised my eyebrows at her. Knowing what I was going to say, she added, ‘She’s looking to work in a higher position, but without being burdened with more work pressure. She has a daughter and needs flexibility and a place closer to her home. I thought you could explain to her that while you can’t afford her right now, you’ll be willing to appraise her sooner, as the business grows. I just think she can make a great head chef.’

  I placed the file away. ‘There will probably be more pres
sure here. It’s a start-up. She might have to wear multiple hats.’

  ‘She’s willing to, as long as she can bring her daughter to work and come by eleven.’

  I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out, but I decided I didn’t have many options to choose from. I nodded. ‘I’ll schedule a meeting with her. Thanks, Vani.’ She gave me a nod and I took out my phone, scrolled through contacts to find the agency’s number.

  ‘Hello. Yes, good afternoon.’ I surfed through the images the agency had sent me in the email. ‘I saw the designs you sent me. I like them personally, but I don’t think they represent my brand very well. It’s a hang-out place for a younger crowd and the logos seem too corporate.’

  ‘The logos represent a classier crowd, sir, not corporate,’ he said. ‘It’s on purpose.’

  ‘I think we should add some colours in there, give it a youthful vibe. This stands in contrast with the interior.’ Vartika poured a glass of water while I talked. ‘Use the colour scheme from the interior design. I’ll send across some images.’

  ‘Sure. We’ll have a look at them.’

  ‘I really like the third one, though, the house with a fork as a chimney. See if we can work that into the colours.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll send you the revised file by the weekend.’

  ‘Weekend?’ I nearly skipped a beat, glanced up at Vartika who stood there drinking water, staring at me. ‘Make it earlier, please. The flex board needs to be done and I am yet to set up my business pages. I need the logo faster than anything else.’

  ‘Sir, we’re really caught up at the moment. This might take a while.’

  After some bargaining, they finally agreed to send it across by Wednesday evening. When I hung up, I began to scroll through my phone gallery to find the designs, lost in dozens of other pictures. ‘Can you believe these people?’ I said, scrolling further down, ‘They say to my face that they have better things to do. And it’s ridiculous that I have to pay for the loss. It clearly could have been avoided.’