by Ashok Banker
Part I
chapter one
Churchgate station. Sweat-drenched, lice-stung, elbow-shoved, you are vomited from the maw of the gargantuan iron worm. Thud of heel on concrete, stride-stride, pacing steadily with a swarming herd of glaze-eyed two-legs, aiming for sunlight, a taxi, office. As you look at it—BLINK—the station clock changes to 10.07. Monday morning, scrubbed clean behind the ears, sore-eyed from too-much-TV-watching over the weekend, sudden belch redolent of garlic, mince and Thums Up. Hawk, spit into the dark pit between a parked train and Platform 1 . Short, barrel-waisted old woman glares accusingly, though you missed her by a clear two inches. Everybody’s ready to tear throats on Monday morning. Is Chris back from Calcutta? Shit.
That Target Market (TM) Profile you were supposed to finish at home over Saturday-Sunday, still lying untouched in your briefcase, right here by your side, too late now to do anything about it. Feel so frustrated, want to duck into Satkar's, order a coffee, sit down and finish the damn thing before going to office, only then you'll be late, and that’s worse. Gets you coming, gets you going, this damn rat race.
‘Hi.’
By his left elbow, white teeth flashing such a dazzling smile, he feels like shielding his Monday-morning eyes from the glare.
‘Meera?'
‘Saw you jump on at Bandra. You were real despo, right?’
Out the gate, into the grape-press crowd choking up the footpath in search of a signal. Sunlight slams into his face like a spotlight in a concentration camp. He shields his eyes, squints, shrugs.
‘My boss is coming back today. Got to be in early. Correction. Had to.’
She grins again. ‘Didn’t make it, huh? Same here. I’m always ten minutes late. I try like hell, but I never thrash the clock. Pits.’
Irritation. What right does she have to be so damn cheery? She’s a suit like I am, isn’t she? Probably got a career, ambitions, rivals looking to grab her boss’s swivel seat, the works. She should be in her office an hour before time (like you, dumbo) and here she is, late and loving it. This is no joke, woman, it’s sacrilege.
The traffic policeman pulling the rope taut across the line of paunches straining like dogs at a leash, drops his grip and the crowd surges forward hungrily, flowing across the road.
You look tense, hassled,’ heels clicking smartly on the pavement, deftly dodging the explosions of dirt and rubble courtesy the municipal corporation of Greater Bombay.
Lousy TM profile my boss wanted on his desk first thing this morning.’
‘Let me guess, you took it home for the weekend and it’s still sitting in your case,’ tapping his accessory. ‘Virgin, right?’
He tilts his head at her. ‘How did you know?’
Happens to me all the time.’ Bending low to avoid colliding with a giant cigarette pack hanging from a tree above a pavement stall. On closer inspection, she has nice breasts, a very tight bottom, and a look-again face. Yes, definitely an interesting face. Twenty-six, twenty-seven maximum, not yet hardened into a corporate map, still unscarred by company politics, the real dirt, torture room at the top.
‘—could join today. So I said okay.’
‘Huh?’
She grins. Perfect set, thirty-two intact; Colgate smile. ‘You’re really pre-occ. Didn’t you hear a word I said?’
‘Oh sure. You were talking about your job. ‘What else could it have been? ‘Go on.’
‘Look.’
He follows her finger skywards, squinting against the sun. ‘What?
The centaur on the Air India building?’ Only now does he realize that they’ve walked halfway to his office. Oh, what the hell. In any case, the line at the share-taxi stand was fifty, maybe sixty.
She slaps his shoulder. ‘No, silly. That bird. There. No, a little more to the left. Do you see it now?’
‘Yellow and black with a red stripe on top?’
‘Right. Isn’t it lovely?’
‘You a Salim Ali fan?’
‘Who? Oh, the birdithologist? No, not really. What’s the matter?
Why are you laughing?’
‘The word is ornithologist, Meera!’
She shrugs, grinning unoffended. ‘I like the sound of birdithologist.’
She reminds him of somebody-the sharp nose, brilliant smile, lustrous black hair, long neck. Who? That bitch, Christine, who borrowed his Rs 175 hardback copy of Edward de Bono’s Creativity and never returned it? That Hindi film starlet—Sridevi? The girl in the new Thums Up commercial? As she talks on, about her previous job, about the difference between Ahmedabad, Calcutta and Bombay, the implications of the Union budget, he realizes she’s not as naive as she looks. On the contrary. Beneath that delicate-featured topography lies a sophisticated management brain. But who? Who? Speak, memory, goddam nit.
She turns into the Express Towers gate with him. He stops, frowns down at her. ‘See you, then. Maybe we can get together for lunch sometime?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Ciao.’ He turns, starts walking to the lift. Her high heels click-clack alongside; he glances over his shoulder. ‘What’s up? Can’t resist my charm?’
She punches the lift button. ‘You really didn’t hear a word I said, huh?’ Ping. The lift. Squeeze in.
‘But where are you—’
She winks, pinches his arm. ‘Relax.’ He shrugs, they ride up in silence to his floor. The CEO of that ad agency on the fifteenth floor looms over the sardine-packed crowd, talking to a tomato-cheeked American in a black suit and white shirt with a blood-red tie:’some very good work. Definitely in for a Golden Pencil.’
Hiss. Clatter. Roll. Stumble out, breathe.
Jay touches his hair to make sure it’s in place. Need a haircut; maybe this weekend, if Chris doesn’t make me come in again. God, when did I last have a weekend entirely to myself? Back in school.
Meera holds the door open for him, the frosted glass with the neat DM logo, the words Direct Marketing Enterprises Pvt. Ltd.
‘Now what?’
She winks, enters, leaving him with the door. He mutters, follows her in, sees her striding down the corridor to Chris’s cabin. ‘Hey, Meera?’ But Christine wiggles a purple-lacquer-tipped hand, plugs and unplugs at her board, ‘Chris buzzed thrice for you,’ then reverts to her inaudible but unmistakable ‘Good morning, DM’.
Jay looks around. Everybody’s in, except him, and he hasn’t done the TM profile yet.’shit.’ Where in god’s name has Meera disappeared?
Chris’s cabin? Impossible. Oh, screw her. Let’s go get our balls chewed off, guys. He drops his case off at his desk, Jyoti appears from behind the money plant, waving a fistful of telexes, ‘Jay, where are you?’ He brushes them away. ‘Later.’ Three knocks on Chris’s door—
Christopher Almeida, managing director—hoping he’s out, praying he’s dead at thirty-two of angina pectoris, Aids, myasthenia gravis, cancer, anything. Sweat trickling down his neck, collar itching like a jute rope, TM profile clutched in one greasy fist, new tie feels like a —
‘Jay. At last.’ Grinning around his ivory filter, bright as a bun hot off the rack, reeking of Drakkar Noir (he carries it in his briefcase along with the usual overnight toiletries for sudden trips, plus not one but two can you beat that—packs of Tahiti Coloured Textured Condoms—better safe than sorry, right?). ‘Come on in and meet your new group head.’
He slides into the cabin, smiling fixedly, intending to slip the document on to Chris’s desk, expecting to see some stiff-ass to replace Swaminathan — a stiff-ass himself, irritated because Chris had clearly told him he’d get three months to prove if he was ready to handle Swami’s clients himself and here he’s gone and hired somebody before a month was over, what the hell does—
‘Hello, Jayesh. Chris has told me so much about you.’
‘Meera! ’And it is she, leaning against the desk, dark eyes glowing, long black hair sweeping the framed picture of Chris’s wife Pinky (—does she know he carries two packs of Tahiti in his overnight case?—) arms crossed casually across her chest, mouth tinged by a hint of mischief, those perfectly lined lips slightly parted, pearly teeth gleaming between, eyes glinting. ‘Looking forward to working with you.’
Jay shakes hands with her, shaking his head; how did this happen?
Was this what she was talking about en route?
‘Meera, Jayesh will be working directly under you, so—’
‘We’ve met before.’ She hasn’t let go off his hand yet. ‘We’re distantly related.’
Chris purses his lips, dumb-whistles. ‘Global family.’ Popping his thick head out of the door, ‘Luce, three coffees.’
Meera gives Jay's palm one final caress. ‘You should try to be a more attentive listener.’
Chris swings back, jabs his filter at Jay. ‘Hey. After coffee, why don't you show Meera around the place? Chaperone her, eh?’
‘Sure, Chris .' His voice sounds more nasal than usual; head throbs, throat hurts, ego aches. ‘Be glad to.’
chapter two
A steak is a terrible thing to be fed for lunch. It sits there on your plate, a thick slice of flesh carved from the body of a slaughtered beast, oozing blood and barbecue sauce, sullen, defiant. Even the mashed potatoes and peas on the side don't mitigate the raw violence of the dish. Jay looks at his steak for maybe ten minutes without touching it. Finally, he pushes the plate away and looks out of the window.
‘It's very good,’ Meera says, chewing patiently.
He ignores her. He looks at Jehangir Art Gallery across the street.
There is a pavement exhibition in progress and they stopped there earlier to look at the paintings on the way here. Watercolours by children, some of them better (in her dumb opinion) than the expensive shit inside the gallery.
Unfortunately, he agreed. He liked one in particular, a Matisse-ish urbanscape smeared with reds. It reminded him of death.
Perhaps that was what spoilt his appetite. Above the Gothic phallus of the Rajabhai Clock Tower, the sun emerges from between two clouds, zaps the concrete with a thick blast of golden glare which bounces right off, slams into the glass wall of the restaurant, turns her eyes into hard gleaming stones. He's learned a few things about her since that first embarrassing encounter. She's not as naive as she looks; maybe he is. He watches her spear a piece of bread, dab it in barbecue sauce, insert it methodicallv. masticate.
‘So you’ve been at DM for, what, three years?’ She doesn’t seem fazed by his distaste for the steak which she’s paying for. It was her idea, this lunch, a way to break the ice which froze instantly after he realized that she was to be his new group head. He resents her, not only for all the usual masculine chauvinistic reasons, but also because he was praying for that promotion—god, how he needs it—and the raise.
He shrugs. ‘Longer than you.’
She smiles. He knows she senses his resentment. He doesn’t care.
‘What is this supposed to prove?’ he asks suddenly, turning on her.
‘Who do you think you’re fooling anyway? I know what you’re trying to do. You think you can just walk in and take my job and I’ll just smile and pretend nothing’s happened? Huh?’
She puts her fork and knife down delicately, the tips touching one another on the empty plate. She’s even finished the fried onions. She takes a sip of her beer (he’s having Thums Up), dabs at her mouth with the corner of her napkin, folds the napkin carefully, puts it on the table, and says, ‘Dessert?’
He stares at her.
She leans across, whispers. ‘You’ll like today’s special. Boss’sTits with Chocolate Sauce.’
He stares at her a moment longer, then, despite himself, a slim wedge cracks his lips. She laughs and touches his shoulder. ‘You’ll be okay, Jay. Don’t worry, you’ll be more than a group head someday soon.’ She slips two hundred-rupee notes into the Rexine billfold, twirls her handbag on to her shoulder, swishes out without a backward glance. He follows reluctantly.
They browse through Rhythm House, elbow-knocked by bubbling Elphinstone College coeds. She finds one tape she likes: Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne. This guy is in the Norton Anthology of Modern American Poetry, she tells him, an old Sixties Beat leftover who growls too close to the mike and sing-talks bizarre surreal-poetic ballads. She loves him because nobody else does. She picks up two Dire Straits tapes too, a Michael Jackson, and asks for names he’s never heard of. Even the salesman behind the counter hasn’t heard of them. She snaps her Diners Card on the formica counter and turns to Jay. ‘Why don’t you take something? My treat.’
He shrugs. He doesn’t want to admit that he only has a banged-up old mono two-in-one at home, and that in any case, his mother only let’s him play Engelbert Humperdinck, Elvis Presley or Jim Reeves.
She pens a precise signature, takes her yellow slip, and they hit the melting streets again.
Somewhere around Oval Maidan he says hesitantly,’so what are you planning to change?’
She glances at him sharply. ‘Is there anything that needs changing?’
He shrugs. ‘You know.’
‘No. Tell me.’
He walks on in silence. They pause at the Eros crossroad to let some traffic pass. A lorry farts exhaust on to their faces. Meera abuses.
They cross. When he doesn’t speak for another hundred yards, she touches his shoulder. ‘Suppose you were in my place,’ she says, and her tone is inviting, friendly, ‘what changes would you make?’
He starts to say something, then hesitates. He still can’t make up his mind about her; losing that promotion and raise still rankles.
‘Jay, I want to be your friend,’ she says, in the same tone. ‘Friends?’
He looks at her. He still can’t remember who she reminds him of, but now, as he looks into her eyes, it comes to him: His mother.
‘Friends,’ he hears himself say, and is surprised to feel himself smile.
chapter three
Two months later.
Smile-smeared faces, victory-gleaming eyes, ties loosened, they emerge from a client’s office, striding down the corridor like Caesar and Antony to the Senate, explode through the glass doors of the building, bursting with executive smugness.
‘I told you we’d—’
‘—out of the palm of my hand—’
‘—and agreed to the fifty-grand retainer!’
Meera touches his arm. They stop walking, breathless. She beams at him. He’s never seen her so happy before. Protons of pleasure trickling from her eyes, nostrils flared with exultation, cheeks ripe.
You were terrific.’
‘Nah,’ he manages.
‘Yes, you were. Magnificent.’
He nods, embarrassedly half-blushing. ‘I wish you’d tell Chris that.
I mean, it was you who did it all, but if you really think I helped somehow, maybe you could, you know, put in a word. I’ve been trying to ask him for a raise.’
She snaps her fingers. A taxi appears. He opens the door for her.
‘But everytime I try to bring up the topic ’
‘Fuck the raise.’
He looks at her.
‘Fuck the raise, Jay. Fuck Chris. Fuck DM. Get out of the place.
Shift. You’re too good for them.’
He listens, left hand resting on the front seat, right hand on the back, half-twisted towards her, perched on the edge of the seat, eyes shifting to her and then back to the road ahead out of habit. She puts her hand on his thigh. He jerks involuntarily. She smiles and draws her hand back.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m just a bit—’
‘It’s okay.’
‘What you were saying... you really think I should leave DM?
Move?’
‘Of course. You have a few weak points, but who doesn’t. Chris is too hard on you. The fact is, you’re
smarter than him in some ways.’
‘I am?’
‘Sure. From what I’ve seen, you’re practically doing his job. All the thinking at least. Chris is great at presentations—that’s one area you’ve got to work on harder—but you can think marketing, Jay. You have a future.’
He swallows. Nobody has ever spoken to him like this before. He doesn’t know what to say. He peers out the window. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Party time.’
‘Huh?’
‘We’re going to celebrate, kiddo. We’re taking the rest of the day off and putting our feet up, breaking out the champagne. We’ve earned it, wouldn’t you say?’
He stares at her. She laughs at his expression. ‘But,’ he says, ‘office?
Chris?’
‘Repeat: Fuck office. Fuck Chris.’ She puts her hand on his thigh again; he controls the reflex. ‘When was the last time you took a day off?’
He thinks .‘Two years ago, I was sick. A couple of months. Jaundice.
I nearly didn't get confirmed because of it. Chris was really angry.'
‘You've earned this day, believe me. And tomorrow.'
‘But tomorrow's Saturday. We’re working half day.'
‘Not this Saturday, we're not.'
‘Meera, are you sure—'
‘Relax, Jay. We're giving ourselves a long weekend. On office expense! '
‘But Chris—'
‘I told you, fuck him. Once I call and tell him we've got Forthams signed to a fifty-grand-a-month retainer, he'll roll over and bark like a seal.' She leans forward and tells the driver to stop.
Jay gets out. Finds himself looking up at the white and brown magnificence of Taj Intercontinental. Meera brushes her hair back, winks casually at him. ‘We're gonna have ourselves a pardy, pardner,'
she says, linking her arm in his. ‘Take me where the good times are .'
There is a moment when he pulls back, hesitates before crossing the road, when his mind whirls with second thoughts, misgivings, anxieties.
‘Come on,' she says impatiently. ‘What are you afraid of?'
Of losing his job, he wants to say. Of losing the only means of staying alive on this damn crust of a planet, the only way to earn a living, even if it is a toilet—her word—and even if my boss is an asshole, steals my ideas, gives me no credit for them. Without this job I'm nobody, nothing; just another statistic in a city full of people without work.