by Sheila Kumar
Nina hesitated. ‘I’m here for the annual India! conference. We are all having dinner out there.’ She gestured beyond the door.
But Manish Mann was having none of it. ‘Darling,’ he told her, not caring one bit that the onlookers could hear him. ‘Now that I’ve found you, I’m not letting you go all that easily.’
And so Nina Sabharwal let herself be led off to a set of chairs near the fireplace, there to while the evening away most pleasantly, sipping mulled wine and chatting with Manish Mann. She caught Dev’s eye and indicated that she would be joining the team later. Later, though, really didn’t look like it was going to happen because Manish cajoled her into having dinner with him. Star-struck fans from the India! roster kept coming and hesitantly asking for selfies, and the good-natured actor obliged them all. Luckily for Nina, Manish quite liked the sound of his own voice so the conversation smoothly became a monologue at some point during the evening, but an interesting monologue for all that, spiced with much gossipy tidbits of all his co-stars and of the Hindi film industry in general. Equally fortunately for her, Manish didn’t seem to notice her less than enthusiastic reactions to all the tittle-tattle, so they were able to spend a pleasant evening.
As they rose from the dining table, Alan and Mr Murthy, the news editor, walked into the dining room. Alan was clearly looking for Nina, and she was touched by his concern. She introduced the men and all of them stood chatting idly for a while.
Manish’s parting shot as Nina left was, ‘You are spending all your free time with me, you hear?’ Nina threw a laughing glance back at him but didn’t reply. He didn’t know they were all heading back to their offices late on Sunday evening, and she didn’t feel the need to inform him, either.
‘Boy, is that one major string to your bow or what,’ Alan said, slyly shooting a sideways glance at Nina. She smiled serenely, refusing to rise to the bait. Alan Pereira was not one to be star-struck, all he was doing was pulling Nina’s leg.
‘Known Manish Mann for long?’ asked a very curious Mr Murthy.
‘He’s a friend,’ replied Nina calmly and the two men had to be satisfied with that.
She went along to her cottage thinking about Manish Mann. He was at the peak of his career and had carefully built up a reputation of being a player. And yes, he had made a move on Nina once or twice but when she had rebuffed him gently, falling back on the ‘boyfriend back home’ fib, he had accepted it most good-naturedly. Which naturally made her suspect that his flirting had been of an automatic nature, an attempt to add one more feather to that legendary cap of his.
The interior of the cottage was icy but Nina welcomed the bracing cold, opting not to switch on the room heater she could see standing next to the grate. Snuggling under the goose-down duvet, she gave a deep sigh and closed her eyes. Falling into a fitful sleep, she dreamt that she was a fan girl, chasing someone famous and elusive. Somehow, it was imperative that she catch up with him. When she did catch up with the tall, lean figure, he turned around and she found herself staring into a face composed of forceful features and eyes the colour of hot chocolate. And he stared back, one eyebrow raised high. Do I know you, he asked, and she fell back, stifling a cry of despair. Her world came crashing about her.
Nina woke before sunrise, recalling that she’d had a disturbing dream but not able to remember the details. Unable and unwilling to go back to bed, she dressed warmly and headed out. She would find Blackie and go for a walk, this time in the other direction to the one she had taken last evening. She found the big black dog at the resort gates, being fed bread by a small bird-like woman who turned out to be The Croft’s owner, Iris O’Connor. The O’Connors had been in Coonoor for more than three decades, and had been running The Croft for almost ten years now.
The two women fell into step, with Blackie – who Iris called Douglas – trotting happily just behind them. ‘He turned up at the gates a few months ago. But he doesn’t care to come in, however much he’s cajoled,’ Iris told Nina with a laugh. Nina turned to look at Blackie/Douglas, who wagged his tail as if to confirm what Iris said. This was definitely a dog with a personality.
The Croft’s people, Nina discovered, were an enterprising and hardworking lot. They grew their own vegetables, churned fresh butter from the milk of the two cows they had, kept chickens for both eggs and meat and made their own preserves and cheeses, too, as Iris informed a fascinated Nina. It was a small operation; they deliberately kept their staff numbers tight, but with all shoulders to the wheel, Iris and Jimmy O’Connor managed things beautifully.
‘What’s more, we are probably the only biodynamic farmers up in these parts, at least so far,’ Iris told Nina, who drew in a sharp breath. Did Samar Singh know of these people, she wondered and almost as if Iris O’Connor read her mind, the older woman told her artlessly, ‘Do you know Samar Singh? He’s a famous photographer who works in Bangalore. Well, we’ve known him for some years now, and he recently bought some land off Jimmy on the western side of the resort. Wants to start up a biodynamic farm project of his own, apparently.’
As Nina silently digested that piece of information, they passed a small shrine built in the Japanese style. Nina chose to change the subject and asked Iris about the shrine. ‘It was built by a local architect and if you peer through the glass panes, you will find there is no idol inside, just a small diya. Hindus and Christians all stop here, bow their head for a minute and then continue with their journey. Charming concept and luckily, it has endured.’
Nina and Iris walked on to the observation point some distance ahead, and stood gazing at the rolling hills in contented silence. The big black dog was busy investigating something in the thick undergrowth. The sun cast a golden light on the hills of the eastern ridge, the western side remained shrouded in mist. The air was slowly warming up. Nina felt a sense of peace slowly settle into her.
Then Iris announced cheerfully, ‘Well, it will soon be time to see to breakfast for all of you. Shall we head back?’
Nina dressed for the conference in a navy pantsuit cut sharply and stylishly, teamed with a crisp white shirt the colour of clotted cream. Breakfast was a sumptuous spread, mainly continental. There were eggs, racks of toast, freshly baked croissants, pats of creamy white butter, pots of bilberry and guava preserve, cut and peeled fruit, jugs of freshly squeezed orange juice, and steel canisters bearing steaming hot tea and coffee. This being tea country, as it were, almost everyone opted for the fragrant, tan-coloured brew.
Mr Murthy sat to one side, casting a jaundiced eye over everyone. ‘Don’t eat too much, you will fall asleep at the conference table,’ he announced portentously to those sitting near him. One of them happened to be Sid. He caught Nina’s eye, winked and then snaked out an arm for more toast. ‘Pass the butter, won’t you?’ he asked the news ed most affably, and Nina had to stifle a giggle.
Mini was seated next to Nina. ‘So,’ she asked, her straight face belied by the wicked gleam in her eye, ‘are you going to attend the S & M conference or are you going to spend the day with Manish Mann?’
‘Oh, I rather think he’ll be busy shooting all day,’ Nina sweetly informed Mini. ‘In which case, I might as well come to the meeting, right?’
The morning session was a lively one, with a huge turnout comprising sales and marketing people from India! offices all over the country. The Bangalore office got their moment in the sun with special mentions of the Girl Child campaign as well as the Pothole Project. Nina was asked to give a brief overview of the latter venture. The Pune and Chennai offices immediately decided to adopt the Pothole Project for their respective city roads, too. As per Mr Mittal’s directive, eventually all the editions of India! were going to run their own versions of the Pothole Project.
When the coffee break rolled around, Nina was rather amused to find herself surrounded by quite a few staffers from upcountry India! offices. ‘Hmmm,’ said Leena rolling a meaningful eye at Nina, when they caught up later, ‘quite the centre of attention, aren’t we?’
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br /> Nina didn’t react. ‘They wanted to know more about the way we went about our media planning for the Pothole Project,’ she told Leena, who snorted. ‘Really? Funny how only the men wanted to know these crucial details,’ she said. Nina looked at her and smiled a glorious smile of unconcern, and Leena had to laugh.
As the two women stood there laughing, Samar Pratap Singh’s silver Mercedes swept into the ivy shrouded portico of the resort. He got out from behind the wheel and went to open the passenger door. From which emerged a vision, a young woman whose face was instantly recognizable to just about everyone in the vicinity, as it was to just about everyone in the country.
‘It’s Tara,’ breathed Mini, who had just joined the other two girls. Tara Rawal was the reigning superstar of Bollywood currently, all alabaster skin, deep dimples and legs that went on forever. Those legs were very much on show now, clad as she was in a sheer silk top paired with a killer leather skirt that was dangerously short and in the most unusual shade of mint green. Her leather boots matched the mint shade of her skirt. How many vegetables were involved in the dyeing of that skirt and those boots, Nina thought sourly and rather ridiculously, even as Leena said in an enraptured tone, ‘Manolos, of course.’
‘And how exactly would you know that?’ enquired Nina innocently. ‘Friends with her dresser, are you?’
‘Idjit,’ replied Leena without heat. ‘Anyone who reads the Filmi Gossip column in India! knows that Tara wears only Manolo Blahniks. All the time.’ She threw Nina a mock-challenging look. But Nina wasn’t in the conversation any longer. Samar had thrown an intent glance over in their direction and Nina turned to stone, her composure temporarily deserting her. The other two girls threw her concerned looks.
Nina felt a stab of dismay when she saw Samar was actually steering Tara over to where they were. Was he bringing the star over to flaunt her in my face, Nina wondered wildly. There was some activity going on behind them and turning around, they found the film crew were standing there, enjoying the morning sunshine as well as a cup of tea. Samar was taking Tara Rawal to them!
As Samar and Nina came face to face, he threw her a look, his face unrevealing, his eyes intent. She abruptly turned on her heel and walked into the conference room. Throwing him apologetic smiles, Leena and Mini followed her. People who were watching this byplay saw nothing in Samar’s face except for a slight tightening of his jaw.
The session that followed was, of course, shot to hell for Nina Sabharwal. She couldn’t concentrate on the PP presentations or note down the salient points raised by others. All she could think of was the stupid way she had behaved out there on the lawns. Now Samar would think she was jealous of Tara Whatsername, and he would be ever so pleased. If she was going to fall to pieces every time she saw Samar Pratap Singh, it would be better if she excused herself and left Coonoor.
Moreover, she had taken great pains to make it look as if Samar and she had broken up by mutual consent. The way she had behaved just now, India! staffers would find something to gossip about for ages. Sales and marketing would wait for their editorial colleagues to finish with their separate conference down the hall to fill them up on this one. Nina winced and Dev shot her a concerned look from across the table. She shook her head reassuringly at him. If this carried on, she thought wryly, Deviah would think she was a real basket case!
Thankfully, she was not called upon to talk or even present anything; all she had to do was sit with an expression of simulated interest. Everyone had unwisely lunched a bit too well, and now they all looked distinctly heavy-eyed. Nina had developed a slight headache by the time the never-ending afternoon session wound up. Pressing a hand lightly to her left temple, she exited the conference hall, walking gracefully across the lawns, only to run into Manish Mann again. ‘Hi, darling,’ he greeted her. ‘I’m heading for my emotional confrontation sequence. Come watch me at it?’
Nina gave a wild laugh and fled the scene, leaving Manish looking after her in a puzzled fashion. Emotional confrontations! She had had enough of them to last her a lifetime.
Now that the conference was over, it was fun and games for the India! staff. They were all leaving the next day, back to their different cities, after a mandatory trip to Ooty for some shopping.
The Bangalore resident editor Alan Pereira, though, planned to drive down later tonight, after staying awhile at the formal dinner. For a moment, Nina contemplated asking if she could ride back to Bangalore with him. Beside Nina, Mini read her thoughts and pulled her aside. ‘Nina Sabharwal!’ Mini hissed at her. ‘You can’t run away like that!’
Nina hunched a pettish shoulder at Mini. ‘Of course I can,’ she said. ‘Watch me.’
Mini said urgently, ‘For how long, Nina? You can’t spend all your time avoiding Samar Singh. You decided to call it quits for reasons best known to you. Now act like a woman with a spine. Face the music.’
Mini was right, of course. Nina would have to find a coping strategy, till she finally left Bangalore, and India. She decided against asking Alan for a lift home.
Actually, Nina badly needed a coping strategy right now. She went along to see if she could attend the resort’s in-house yoga class before dressing for dinner; luckily, she had a pair of track pants and a loose tee-shirt in her suitcase. The yoga teacher, a very short man with a long, straggly beard, was most happy to have her join the class of three. It was an arduous session, and Nina welcomed it. She felt much better as she went back to her cottage. In fact, she felt she could take on both Tara and Samar together; luckily for her, she didn’t see them anywhere around. Thoughts immediately crowded her brain but she refused to contemplate where they were and if they were together. Samar would have attended the editorial conference, but that had wound up an hour ago. And he was nowhere to be seen. So what, Nina asked herself in an uncharacteristically savage tone.
Dressed for dinner, she inspected herself in the cheval mirror. She had on a deep tangerine dress that fitted her like the proverbial glove, a silk one at that. She had teamed it with just one piece of jewellery, chandelier earrings of deep Mexican amber that brushed the tops of her shoulders softly. She smiled wryly down at her nude heels; the shoes may not be Manolos but they fit perfectly and looked great. Spritzing some Rive Gauche on her pulse points, she picked up her beaded purse and left the cottage, locking the door behind her carefully.
The lawns were softly lit by old Victorian lamps and also by fairy lights of gold and silver strung on the trees. The bandstand was empty as of now, and piped music issued gently from discreetly placed giant speakers. People were in huddles and, of course, the talk was all business, flowing fast and furious. Marketing was hotly debating the pros and cons of some of the group general manager’s suggestions. ‘Editorial will never hear of it,’ someone groaned, and Nina bit back a smile. Editorial, she knew, treated the GM like an alien who had landed in the newspaper offices quite by unhappy accident and was to be treated with the bare modicum of courtesy but generally ignored. ‘We need a non-journalist to tell us what news to carry and what news to drop?’ the journalists scoffed. The GM did what he had to, pretending to have a much thicker skin than he did in actual fact.
Within a few minutes, the top brass entered the venue – all the editors and top honchos of the various departments of India!. They flashed very white smiles of fake affability all around, stopped to chat very briefly with a few staffers, then moved to their own corner, hierarchy thus firmly established. Nina watched the minions rush up to what had willy-nilly become the top table, with finger foods and tray after tray of drinks. As she circulated, stopping to chat with friends and acquaintances from the other India! offices, the Kolkata resident editor stepped up to Nina to tell her, in that order, that she looked smashing and to ask if she was going to switch to editorial. No, she told him, the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, she was quite happy in marketing. ‘But you write very well,’ he told her, his tone almost plaintive. ‘I’ve read your feature pieces.’
The women were all dres
sed to the nines in both Indian dress and Western gear. Leena looked lovely in a Kerala sari, and Nina noticed her husband throwing her appreciative glances from time to time. Mini was in a dress that exposed a lot of her finely sculpted shoulders and slim arms. ‘Brrr, no one told me Coonoor would be quite so cold in September,’ she moaned to Nina, who smiled pitilessly at her. ‘Go on, now,’ she told the other girl. ‘You bought this dress just so you could impress everyone at this dinner.’
Mini conceded the point and then said, ‘Well, if I’m going to leave India! for Tarun’s paper, there really is no need to spend so much and impress people here, hmmm?’ This provocative statement was typical of Mini, and Nina regarded her with a smile.
‘Have you decided then?’ Nina asked her. Mini shrugged and replied, ‘I’ve given myself a deadline. And I’ll start thinking about the job switch only when I’m back in Bangalore. I’m here to have a good time.’
Nina opened her mouth to ask something, then prudently closed it. But Mini threw her a wry glance. ‘Have I talked it over with Raj? Yes, I have. He’s okay with whatever I choose to do.’
The band set up and started to play some upbeat tunes and people were soon out on the wooden dance floor. Nina was dancing with Dev when she heard a buzz at the steps leading down to the lawns. Turning, she saw Tara Rawal standing on the top step, resplendent in a one-shouldered crimson gown and flanked by two gorgeous hunks, Manish Mann and Samar Singh. Pity the paps aren’t here, Nina thought sourly, then resolutely turned back to Dev. But a fine thread of tension was starting to unfurl inside her.
Would Samar Singh approach her? This time she was determined to be civil. But it was Manish who came up when Nina got off the floor. ‘Get you a drink?’ he asked, simultaneously snapping his fingers imperiously at a passing waiter. Nina laughed as he put a glass of champagne in her hand. ‘What?’ he asked her. ‘I got you a drink, that’s all.’