After the Storm

by Lakshmy Ramanathan

  Rathore nodded in the negative.

  Mistry returned to the printout he was reviewing and Rathore saw himself out. When he stepped out of the cabin, he caught the molten brown eyes staring. Again. He headed for the pinup board, pinched a flyer off it and walked towards the owner of the brown eyes.

  ‘Do you follow yachting?’ he asked in his deep, trademark tones. Meenakshi stood up from her chair feeling confused and blurted a ‘no’. Then realising she shouldn’t let go of an opportunity to report, even if only for the sports desk, she said, ‘I love badminton though. I can tell how good a shuttler is by watching how far his cock flies.’

  Rathore’s eyebrows shot up. Meenakshi clasped her mouth with both her palms, shocked and embarrassed by what she had said and not meant to. And just like that, the hard-to-please Rathore put his head back and laughed hard.

  Meenakshi bent her head low, wishing the carpet would brush her away, out. He took a step closer to her and dipping his chin to her ears, muttered, ‘Well, Miss Meenakshi, I don’t doubt your prowess one bit. But let’s leave the balls and cocks for now. Please head to the Royal Mumbai Yachting Club (RMYC). I am afraid there’s no sailing this time. The Jeejeebhoy group is honouring war veterans and it will be a good write-up for the Independence Day.’

  Meenakshi nodded, holding on to every word.

  ‘Oh and take the photographer with you. And Minaakshi,’ he said and waited for her to look up at his face that was smiling at her with amusement. ‘You might not see this as fun but it’s an opportunity to make contacts at the club.’

  4

  Meenu’s phone vibrated manically on the bed. She couldn’t ignore it any longer. She had to pick up.

  Why, why did her family feel the urge to connect at the crack of dawn? Okay, it wasn’t dawn exactly (not by Tam-Brahm standard time at least) but she had hit the bed only by two last night and it wasn’t even seven yet!

  ‘Meenu, yezhendacha?’ demanded Padu’ma.

  Meenakshi sat up and rested her head against the wall behind her trying to keep her left eyelid from flopping down. She knew this was going to be a loonnng call. Padu’ma hadn’t heard from her daughter in two weeks.

  ‘Get up, go for a walk,’ said Padu’ma cheerily. ‘Or don’t you exercise these days?’

  Meenu felt her tummy. No folds yet. Though that was not from working out; it was more from rarely ever finishing a meal. Ever since she had joined The Daily Times, her meals had been few and far between. Between 9 a.m. and 3.30 p.m., she subsisted on juices and chocloate bars and ate like a whale when the markets closed for trading. She would feel sick right after but at least her tummy was full. Around seven, she ordered for a packet of chips and if her desk head didn’t choose the exact same time to have a photo airbrushed or graph resketched, she would wolf down a sandwich. Her next meal was only after the business pages went to print, a little after eleven. And typically this was two rotis, a watery dal, and a brown slushy subji that she didn’t bother touching.

  Meenu’s family couldn’t fathom why she couldn’t grab a proper, timely meal but then they had never witnessed the crocodile chaos – where the buggers (her bosses and colleagues) wasted the entire morning smoking, gossiping and mentally undressing every woman at work; and then scrambling to their monitors like mugger crocs to their pit upon realising they had 20 pages to fill.

  Meenu took in a deep breath. Just thinking about the evening chaos was stressful. ‘No Padu’ma. Time illa ma for exercise, ‘she said finally opening both her eyes.

  She thought she heard her mother go hmmphh.

  ‘I called to say varalakshmi nombu next Friday.’

  ‘So…?’

  ‘Go to the Sringeri mutt and tie the thread there. Calendar la mark paniko.’

  ‘But why can’t I kattikyafy it here at Mama’s house?’ Meenu argued running her fingers on her wrist where the yellow thread would be wound. Actually if she was going to argue, she should have asked why she had to tie the thread in the first place, she thought regretfully.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ asked Padu’ma a little surprised. Was Meenu never home? ‘They are leaving for the US to drop Varun for his undergraduate programme.’

  Aaah yes. Mami had mentioned.

  ‘But I don’t know where the mutt is’, whined Meenu.

  ‘And when has that been a problem. Can’t you google it?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ replied Meenu, knowing exactly where this was headed.

  ‘Then get a cab and head there. In fact the mutt is right opposite Usha aunty’s house.’

  ‘What?’ exploded Meenu. ‘Then I am definitely not going’.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What if I run into her?’

  ‘Why do you have to avoid her?’

  ‘Amma, are you out of your mind? I turned her son down!’

  ‘She might not know.’

  ‘Believe me, if you know, she knows too.’

  And her mother did that funny snort again which really didn’t help.

  ‘Meenu, you know we never skip the nombu. Besides, you always go on and on about being a feminist.’ Padu’ma continued, her voice rising. ‘Do your bit. Pay homage to a goddess.’

  ‘Will there be prasadam?’ she asked finally.

  ‘Yes, plenty’ said Padu’ma who went into a fit of giggles.

  ‘Amma, is this some elaborate pla—’ but before Meenu could complete her sentence, her mama grabbed the phone out of her hand.

  ‘Padu, what is this? Why is Krishna not leaving to the U-Yes for the fall term? How will he earn his Yem-Yes then?’ he demanded.

  ‘Illa anna,’ replied Padu’ma defensively. ‘Do you know he got purrrfect SAT scores? He is just not able to decide whether to do engineering or something else.’

  ‘What? Krishna is not keen on engineering aa?’ wailed her mama into the phone as if it was some sort of blasphemy. Actually it was, in Meenu’s family.

  Great. The news was finally out. What her brother had shared with her during the summer had finally leaked and dripped into the family’s ear sockets.

  Now was the time to get back to sleep. Her mama and mother would be locked for days discussing Krishna’s career prospects.

  Or not.

  She hadn’t spoken to Krishna since she had left Chennai. She got up and went to the balcony to make a call to her brother.

  ‘You are not going?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Krishna sounding far away.

  ‘Hmm … so what are you going to do?’

  ‘Row.’

  ‘Row? What do you mean row?’

  ‘I mean rowing Meano. You know boat, oars in the river. Listen I gotta go. Time for practice.’

  And for the first time in many years, Meenakshi found her brother shutting her out, preferring the company of the scenic yet sewage bearing Adyar river that meandered a little away from their house.

  She looked out of the window, sucking in the scents of the neem trees and frangipani lining the compound wall. It reminded her of home.

  The monsoons were in full swing in Mumbai. Every morning, Meenakshi woke up to the sound of falling rain. This was markedly different from Chennai’s cantankerous skies that thundered and glinted every time the northeast monsoons threatened to dump rain. The city’s aversion to rains could be seen in the way ill prepared bikers forced pillion riders to hold an umbrella over their heads; in the way gloom descended over everyone’s faces and in the way traffic snaked to a stand still. In Mumbai though, it seemed as if people couldn’t have enough of the rains. They cheered and chased despite the cancelled trains, grey skies, pot holes and slush.

  When Meenu had landed in Mumbai, her mami had asked her to get a raincoat (a trench coat in water proof material) so that she too could chase cheerily but she had felt school girlish to be kitted out in one. Then one morning in the ladies’ compartment, the most coutourish looking umbrella had elbowed her from the side. The coral paisleys splattered over a dark chocolate brown could be hers for Rs 300. Meenu grabbed it. Whe
n she had spanked it open at Parel station where she had alighted, it had sounded like a thousand knuckles straightening at the same time. It was pure delight.

  The monsoon’s most profound effect was however felt at the office canteen. The Shetty annas had rolled back the brown slush and brought back their mini idlies dunked in hot rasam, spicy potatoes cajoled into knife sharp dosas. Meenu barely touched them – she craved for something else – an entirely dry day.

  In fact, it hadn’t rained since her mother had called last morning. Meenakshi woke up hopeful, smiling at the bright sunshine pouring in through the balcony of her mama’s house. She showered and chose an ivory poncho with inky blue ikkat print splattered across to go with her denims. She carefully applied some mascara that brought out the browns of her eyes; sprayed some fragrance on her neck; glossed her lips into a soft nude hue and left her blow dried hair open. Clipping on some silver hoops, she reached for her leather tote when she realised, maybe not. The tote was beginning to smell funny, getting damp in the rains. She grabbed a mirror jhola from her cupboard instead, tipped her phone, charger, ID and purse into it and waved her mami goodbye.

  The sky had been blue through most of her journey. But as she alighted at Parel and waited in line to get a share taxi, the ma of all showers started. By the time she got into a taxi, she was soaked and seated next to a pot bellied man munching a not so sukha bhel inside a cab. Meenu squirmed and swore in her mind.

  She was thankful to get out of the cab. As she walked past the entrance gate, she looked herself up and down. She was drenched to the bone. Without doubt. A quick peek into her phone’s camera confirmed her worst fears. Her mascara had run and her hair resembled the quills of a bad tempered porcupine. She contemplated going home and changing but it was half past eight already. She had to be in her seat in another thirty minutes.

  As she retrieved her face out of her phone, she froze. The familiar sight of a bright blue football jersey and faded jeans loomed in front of her, a couple of feet away. She looked up to find Rathore staring at her intently, the corners of his mouth twitching, probably wanting to laugh. He quirked an eyebrow instead.

  ‘Changed bags. No umbrella in this one,’ she said jingling her now sodden jhola and managing a wry smile.

  He strode towards her in quick strides and looked straight into her eyes.

  Meenu found herself saying, ‘I’ll get a top when the shops open.’

  ‘And until then … what? Catch pneumonia?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Walk,’ he said, putting his arm around her shoulder and tugging her under his umbrella. Meenu went warm standing so close to him, breathing in his breath. He guided her towards the parking lot and stopped by the rear of a red, i20 sport.

  Rathore bent to open the boot and retrieved a duffel bag. He handed it to Meenu and opened the rear door for her.

  ‘You’d better change. Best not to walk around in that white top, ‘he said straight faced.

  Meenu flushed. Yes she knew what all the rain had outlined on her dress. Rathore shut the door as she climbed in and stood with his back to the car. Meenu opened the duffel bag to find a giant Bayern Munich hoody in red which smelt of his heady cologne.

  After checking no one was walking past the car at that exact same moment, she quickly slid out of her poncho, now a crumpled mess and zipped on the hoody. She rolled up the sleeves and rubbed the mascara off her cheek. When she stepped out of the car, the hoody came down to her thighs. She prayed it might pass off as an anti-fit, shirt dress with soccer details.

  As if.

  Rathore and Meenu walked back to the office together. While he took the stairs to the canteen on the second floor, Meenu mumbled a thanks and made a run to her desk. The sooner she settled down, the fewer people would notice.

  It felt really odd to be in somebody else’s clothes. Her knees felt wobbly and her calves weak. But whether it was from feeling damp waist down or being wrapped in Rathoreness was debatable.

  By noon, Meenu had managed to raise a couple of eyebrows and several dirty looks. So she was really grateful when the otherwise snooty looking Pinky walked towards her for what seemed like a meaningful conversation.

  One of the Khans was hosting a big party on a yacht and the media was banned. Would her contacts at the RMYC arrange for a deck hand to rustle up a photo? Even a picture taken from a cell phone would be fine.

  Meenu said she would try her best. Pinky muttered a quick thanks and disappeared. Rathore who was strolling past her desk (a repeat act since the morning) with a coffee mug in hand asked if she felt alright in a low, concerned voice. Meenakshi didn’t get up to answer. She was certain that her bottom had left an unmistakable watermark on the chair. But when Rishi (foe turned fab friend) finished filing his story for the day, she hurried over to the sports desk (making sure Rathore wasn’t in his seat) and whined.

  ‘I ran into him at the entrance. It was he … who offered me his jersey,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘What am I supposed to do? Walk into office and parade my nipples?’

  Rishi searched her eyes. ‘Seriously, don’t you realise why people are talking?

  Meenu looked blank.

  ‘Obviously, they think you guys spent the night together. You know … how women wear their boyfriend’s shirts?’

  Meenu crinkled up her nose.

  ‘Besides you have that glow, that after-sex glow.’

  ‘Okay, now you are exaggerating,’ she said.

  Rishi burst out laughing. ‘Yes, I am.’

  Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw that Rathore had returned and was staring rather intently at her. Meenu suddenly grinned back. She hadn’t even snogged him and here the entire office thought she had slept with him! The irony made her smile.

  Later that night, as she waited for her drop, the headlights of a car bore into her eyes. As the lights dipped, she could make out the i20 and its owner.

  ‘Get in,’ called out Rathore, thrusting his head out of the window.

  Just as she was about to reply, a drop fell on her lips. She looked up and then back at Rathore and said, ‘You don’t need to give me a lift.’

  ‘But I want to,’ he said.

  The drops were coming down faster. Meenu got in.

  ‘Why do you want to?’ she asked clicking on the seatbelt and turning to face him.

  ‘So I could do this,’ he said, pulling her by the hoody’s zipper and kissing her on the lips. At first, he was gentle, teasing the ends of her lips with his tongue but when she responded by parting them, he thrust in harder holding the back of her neck with his one hand and kissing her urgently. Meenu gasped but her body was tingling all over, warmth gushing towards the nippy ends of her toes and breasts. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back with her full mouth, first on his lips and then at the top of his chest where the shirt buttons parted. Rathore’s eyes glinted with desire. He tugged her zip lower and kissed her on the creams of her collarbone, moving further down when the headlights of a car coming from the opposite side washed over her face.

  Meenakshi broke away from the kiss and zipped up but a second later, when they were enveloped in darkness again, Rathore nuzzled up to her neck again, demanding a full replay.

  5

  Meenakshi found Sringeri Mutt without much difficulty on the morning of 28 August. The mutt was the only place (apart from Chembur’s diamond garden) that people bustled in and out of at this time.

  As she got out of the taxi and waited for her change, a first floor balcony that jut out from the opposite house caught her attention. She studied the handsome house with interest, tracing under the dewy light of dawn the Chettinadu brackets and pillars pegging its ceiling. As her eyes ran past the wooden balustrades covering the length of the house, they came to a halt at a familiar face. Usha aunty was staring out of a window that faced the mutt, her fingers curled around its bars like a child eyeing a newly opened toy store.

  Meenu suddenly felt sorry for the woman she had dreaded running into. Not wanting to
be caught staring, she turned around and entered the mutt. Once inside, the scent of lotuses and tuberoses assailed her nostrils. Uttering a prayer that she had been taught as a child, she went to where the embossed face of the goddess lay mounted on a silver pot. The goddess shone fiercely, her jewels twinkling brilliant hues. Several offerings flanked her on both sides – rice, flowers, vermilion and incense sticks among them.

  Meenu whipped out her phone and took a quick picture. She then proceeded to pick up a yellow thread kept on a brass plate at the end of the table and queued up for prashad before the line got too long.

  When she emerged from the mutt, she hesitated just for a moment. Shrugging her shoulders, she then crossed the road and began to climb a spiralling staircase before she could change her mind. When the bell trilled under her finger, Mrs Usha Ramakrishnan opened the door and looked as if she had seen a ghost.

  ‘Meenakshi!’ she gushed resting her fingers on Meenu’s shoulder and pulling her into the house affectionately.

  ‘I forgot you moved to Bambayi for work!’

  ‘Yes aunty, I work here now. Amma told me you stay opposite the mutt. Thought you’d like some prasadam,’ she said unfurling her fingers.

  Usha smiled eagerly, taking the prashad to her eyes, uttering a thanks to god.

  ‘Will you have some coffee?’ she asked, heading to the kitchen. There were potted plants all around and the first rays of light streamed in from all sides. The entire house looked spotless, very different from the dark corners of Meenu’s large home that housed any number of geckos and cobwebs.

  ‘Thanks, aunty, but it’s a bit early for me’ she replied hesitantly.

  Usha aunty didn’t seem to take any offence but simply said, ‘Then you must come another day for a proper meal. You stay with your mama, right? I’ll call and invite them too.’

  ‘Actually, they just left for the US’.

  ‘Oh,’ she said not stopping to ask why or when they would return. Meenu stared in disbelief. How unlike the rest of the sambhar mafia, she thought.