‘You either put them in cold storage or carry it as a brief,’ she continued in an accusing tone.
‘Minaakshi,’ he said, his one hand resting on his hips. ‘How many sailing stories can I carry in a week?’
‘If they are so dull, why did you give me that beat?’
‘I thought you enjoyed it the first time!’
Meenu shrugged, breaking eye contact.
‘Be fair,’ he said, his voice turning hard. ‘Nobody is stopping you from doing a story. No editor in his right mind will ever turn a good story down. You know that.’
Meenu found her temper rising. ‘Are you saying I have not been filing good stories,’ she spat out.
Rathore stared back contemplating the situation. ‘Let’s talk. We should. I’ll just take a quick shower.’
But Meenu was in no mood to talk.
7
To her relief, the talk never happened. Rathore left later that night to Dharamsala to cover a match and when he returned three days later, he was locked with his team in a conference room for hours. When he emerged, he rushed to a taxi waiting outside to get to the studios of Core Cricket, a sports channel that had recently axed their in-house cricket expert, the too-chirpy-for-her-own-nerves Ms Bhandekar.
Meenu realised that turning into a sulkasura didn’t really help matters. So she cooled her head and heels in the loos and fell to work with a new found appetite, attending every possible press conference and building an impressive bank of photos to go with any guest column that her desk head thrust upon her.
It went without saying that she now had very little time to don shades and sun hats to sailing clubs. In fact, just this morning when she had received an invite to a soiree from the RMYC, she had transferred the call to the sports desk extension, like a martyr.
Her aloofness from the sports desk seemed to puzzle the said team, but it was best to keep away until she had decided what she wanted from Rathore. For even though she had luurrved the way things had geyser-ed up between her and Rathore, she now worried that she might have begun to expect something from him professionally. And that was truly unprofessional, she could hear her father say.
Rathore could not understand why Meenu was avoiding him. She did seem to catch his eye every once in a while, and even offer a lukewarm smile, but she didn’t seem to hang around the sports desk, waiting for a lift or a light brush against her waist. Hell, she didn’t even pick up her extension anymore. She hadn’t found someone else, had she? Rathore wondered if she expected some favour – a four-column flyer or something for one of her sailing stories – But didn’t she know better? He had received enough barbs this past one month. Now that his full team was back, there were no excuses. They were back to working around the clock, putting together a titillating spread of grand slam winners and debriefed WAGS every single edition.
But on nights he drove back home, he missed breathing in her scent, missed kissing her. She probably wanted to slow things down. But for how long, he wondered. She was a girl away from home. How many friends did she have in Mumbai? Not many, he hazarded.
Mid September, there was a buzz in the air; the annual office party was just four weeks away and everyone except the trainees (who hadn’t been informed or invited yet) seemed to spring out of their chairs mid-page release to discuss dress, make-up and possible hook-ups. Even the associate editors glided past the huddles indulgently not barking orders for a change.
So when Meenakshi and the rest of her trainee gang were ushered into Mistry’s cabin on the last day of the month, they filed in expectantly, hoping they would be invited to the roof top party with the rest of the office. Two interns had gone into such a tizzy at the thought of an evening of free booze that Rishi had to burp at their faces to shut them up.
‘Hulllooo,’ said Mistry genially. ‘How’s everything?’ he asked though no one bothered to share their opinion. The last time they did that they landed far away from their dream beat.
‘So … you’ve all been here for what – four months now?
The huddle across the desk nodded their heads.
‘Well your desk heads tell me you’ve been working really hard. So the management has decided to cut short your probation,’ he said watching the myriad expressions unfold on their faces with shrewd eyes. Then just as suddenly, he broke into a warm, wide grin. ‘Congratulations! You have all been confirmed … Welcome to The Daily Times.’
There was a fair amount of whooping in the air and the group genuinely gave him smiles of relief.
‘Those of you who had requested for reporting … you start tomorrow, though you might have to double up on the desk if things get busy. Understood?’ he asked.
Meenu nodded. She was one among the huddle who had applied for reporting.
‘Rashmi from HR will issue employee IDs soon,’ he said, even as his gaze shifted to the entrance of his open cabin. A short, stout man, round as an eighties’ ash tray, stood flicking the sweat off his temples with his fingers.
‘Bolo Bikas, kya haal hain?’ Mistry demanded, leaning against the back of his chair.
‘First class,’ he replied entering the cabin. ‘Sirji,’ he said dramatically, pausing and swelling his chest to a point that threatened to pop a button. ‘Three full-page ads kal ke liye.’
Mistry’s eyebrows shot up.
‘From Baba Ramdutt.’ Then looking towards the trainees he explained, ‘His company is coming out with instant noodles na? Yeh baaki noddle-shoodle sab khatam.’ He snapped his fingers with relish. What the ad sales head had failed to notice was Mistry eyeing his own cup of steaming hot noodles dolefully.
‘Three page kyun?’ asked Mistry not entirely happy with the competition his favourite brand of noodles was facing.
‘A caul against impeerializm,’ replied Bikas, laughing conspiratorially.
Mistry snorted, his face crinkling up further. How bonkers were India’s god men and gurus? Well, enough to cough up a half a crore for three full-page ads.
‘Arrey, yeh office party ko prepone kyun kiya?’ asked Mistry.
And now it was Bikas’ turn to look surprised.
‘Mila nahin aapko … second quarter ka result?’
Mistry straightened up in his seat, alert. ‘It’s not out yet, is it?’he asked in a low, steady voice.
‘Mera friend hain na sir Accounts mein – ussi ne disclose kiya.’
‘What does it look like?’ asked Mistry dropping all friendly banter, unable to mask the edge in his voice.
‘Revenue from sales have gone up by 19 per cent, sirji,’ stressed Bikas, albeit with caution. Though this was bloody good, you could never tell with Mistry. Everyone at the ad department knew that he was hard to please. He gave them hell over the dummies, haggling over the position of each ad. As if what his reporters filed around the ads made any difference to the company’s profits.
Mistry smiled cautiously but seemed to have made a mental note to check the results when the Registrar of Companies would release it in two weeks’ time.
‘Sirji, isiliye party ko prepone kiya.’
Mistry now got up and retrieved his jacket from the end of his desk. Before walking out of his cabin, he looked at Bikas and pointed towards the trainees.
‘Just inducted.’
‘Arrey waah! One more reason to celebrate,’ he said winking at the nearest girl.
The trainees began to file out and where pounced upon by the HR head Rashmi, who had been circling like a chopper that had singed its tail – wobbly and out of control –in her pencil heels and muttony calves.
‘It’s going to be a night of cocktails and celebs, so dress well,’ she said directing her gaze at a trainee who looked like he had picked up his shirt from the nearest homeless shelter.
‘Is it just cocktails or will food also be there?’ the same trainee asked.
‘Of course, food will be there’, replied Rashmi with barely hidden pity. ‘By one of Mumbai’s hottest new chefs in fact. His spherification is to die for,’ she added loftily
and walked away.
‘Spherification?’ asked someone in the huddle.
‘It’s a technique employed in modern cooking,’ Chanda replied nonchalantly.
‘Sounds like geometry if you ask me,’ mumbled Meenu.
‘Actually, chefs employ this method to play with textures,’ explained Chanda. ‘Liquids transform into caviar like spheres. The end result both shocks and surprises your tongue.’
The crowd listened intrigued. This certainly didn’t sound like just another office party.
‘Do you have something nice to wear?’ asked a girl to Meenu’s left.
‘Not to an office party,’ Meenu replied with certainty.
The girls skipped lunch, using the break to go shopping. Meenu had been granted a two-hour break after being told to leave an update on the wires (typed out methodically in the order of breaking), the first edit of the guest column and one possible picture and illustration to go with it.
That was simple enough. Should take a couple of minutes, Meenu reasoned. As if.
After collectively drooling outide the many shop windows, the girls went their separate ways to pick out outfits for the party. At the end of ninety minutes, Meenu was smiling even though her legs had begun to hurt from all that standing. She had managed to find a sexy but simple wrap dress that fit snugly around her waist. Besides, the chocolate muffins that the girls ordered with cold coffee did wonders to lighten up her mood. Awkward or not with Rathore, she was going to try and have a good time.
Ten days later, Meenu had returned from office early, showered and slid into her nude coloured (champagne pink the store lady had insisted) wrap dress, examining the soft gathers of chiffon that swept around her silhouette. She ran her fingers over the sash of pale gold sequins that cinched her waist, smiling shyly at her own vanity. Cocktail-ready or not, she knew she looked good and after borrowing a clutch from her mami, she strode out of the apartment in her wedges.
When Meenu entered the roof top of the convention centre, it looked so glamourous, she couldn’t help but gape. The whole place looked like a set out of James Cameroon’s Avatar, done up in pearly white and a deep metallic blue. And suddenly she didn’t feel as confident as before. She chewed at her bottom lip wishing she had come along with Chanda or one of the other girls. But then she had wanted to escape the mad mad Mumbai traffic and had arrived early.
Slowly, she strolled about the venue, which held very few guests at the moment. A giant blue tent ensconced the entire venue, pegged to the sides of the wall. Upturned jellyfish-like lanterns hung from the tent glowing in pearly huddles. A glass panel that reached up to the tent divided the venue into two sections: indoors and out. Long tables with gleaming cloches had been set up in both sections. As Meenu walked along the Prussian blue carpet rolled out across the room, she even caught sight of mini cabanas. They had been hoisted around deck chairs that had been set up outside. Clearly, it was going to be a long, cozy night for some. Meenu proceeded towards the bar, where she had told her friends she would wait if she reached early.
As she inched nearer deciding what to order, a boy dangling from a barstool turned around and ran his eyes over her from head to toe.
‘You look like a flamingo,’ he declared.
Meenu burst out laughing, smacking Rishi with her clutch.
8
‘Do you know KayJo is coming by later?’ asked Rishi.
‘Oh really?’ replied Meenu barely interested.
‘Pretty cool, don’t you think?’ he asked.
‘Must have paid his way through it.’
‘Have you lost your marbles?’ he demanded. ‘Why would he pay? In fact we must have coffered quite a bit to get him here.’
‘It doesn’t always work like that, Rishi,’ Meenu said loftily.
‘And you would know because…’
‘Cause I am brilliant,’ she said flashing her pearlies.
Rishi had that ‘save me the nonsense’ look on his face.
‘Okay, okay… I was doing some work for Pinky and we got talking. She said every production house spends several crores on what is called medianet articles to secure constant coverage. By dropping in today, KayJo is just making sure that we stick to our part of the deal and of course smile for the cameras.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yep…’ she said, ordering a breezer. ‘Don’t you know his movie is coming up? Apparently this time around he is desperate. His last two films didn’t even do average business.’
Rishi was holding on to every word so Meenu continued, ‘Pinky says medianet articles are an open secret. A lot more happens, only we don’t know.’
‘By we, I gather you mean us – the ones who don’t cover entertainment,’ Rishi enquired.
Meenu nodded nibbling at some peanuts.
‘Did you try the starters?’ asked Rishi.
Meenu shook her head and flagged down a waiter holding a tray of shot glasses. She read the dish on the card which rested on one end of the tray: ‘Sun ‘n’ yogurt dried chilly- crusted paneer with Bhaang’.
She rolled her eyes at Rishi.
‘Some show-off this chef,’ she commented.
‘Try them,’ he said, bringing his fingers to kiss his puckered mouth. ‘They’re fantastic.’
Meenakshi lifted a shot glass from the tray and examined it critically. A creamy cube of paneer rested on its mouth while bhaang garnished with ruby red balls lay underneath. With a toothpick, she poked through the paneer and nibbled at it. The heat of the chilly choked her throat causing her to take a quick swig of the bhaang. The rose petal flavoured balls slid through her throat, billowing sweet coolness.
‘That was bloody good, wasn’t it?’ barked Mistry who had walked up to the bar, licking his fingertips unabashedly. Someone small and shadowy, whom Meenu identified as the executive editor, tottered up beside him.
Rishi got off his barstool and remarked, ‘You look famished sir. May I?’ he said beckoning a waiter and offering a hors d’oeuvres.
The rooftop was slowly filling up. Meenu could now sight colleagues from her desk. Since the markets closed by afternoon, the business reporters managed to file the big stories much before their counterparts at other desks. In general though, reporters from other desks too had begun to troop in. Though they had worked twice as fast to reach the venue at a reasonable hour they would be on their phones all evening, ready for any developments on their stories.
The subs (sub editors) and desk heads would come in later at around eleven after the first edition had been released. Mistry himself would head back to the office at ten and reappear later. How long was this party supposed to go on? Meenu wondered. Well till KayJo showed up at least, she realised.
The bar began to get crowded and Rishi and Meenu moved to one of the cabanas outside, where the rest of the ex-trainee gang joined them. Chanda, who looked far from an insect tonight in a white top and black palazzos, was examining a mini appalam. ‘Did you try these?’ she asked examining the bed of crispy curry leaves that lay atop a Vietnamese relish. It’s finger-licking good’. Of course everyone knew Chanda didn’t need an excuse to have a go at her fingers. They relaxed against the back of the deck chairs, taking in the view past the potted Ashoka trees into the inky sky, when someone across the terrace caught Meenu’s attention.
His broad shoulders stood out even from a distance, as did the tilt of his head. Dressed in a blazer, white shirt and denims, he looked dashing in an understated manner and relaxed, chatting up a waiter.
Meenu got up, as if in a trance, and strode up to him tapping him on the shoulder. Rakesh, turned around a tad annoyed and then broke into a wide grin on seeing Meenu.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
‘Where do you think that came from?’ he asked pointing to the hors-d’oeuvre-less toothpick she held between her fingers.
‘Aaah I should have realised from the flavours,’ she replied.
‘Just the hors d’oeuvres. The rest are by another kitchen’.
‘Another one?’ she asked sounding surprised.
‘Okay, don’t tell your boss. The main buffet has been outsourced to the chefs who ran my mum’s mess.’
‘What?’ crinkling up her nose as if the idea of eating from a mess wasn’t very appealing.
‘Oh please stop with the disapproval,’ said Rakesh waving his hand. ‘The menu was put together by me and I swear by their ability to deliver.’ Then seeing that Meenu was listening, he continued, ‘When I took over mum’s kitchen, it was impossible to retain the old hands. New skills and techniques had to be learnt. They were not suited to the task,’ he said and then with a look of amusement, he added, ‘Nor did they want to. So I helped them set up another kitchen, one which caters to parties. They are pretty good you know … at least at the regular fare – dal, roti, paneer’.
‘Wow, that is something,’ said Meenu smiling appreciatively.
‘Okay, I just bragged and bragged right,’ he asked walking alongside her, taking a sip from his glass of sparkling water.
‘Yes you did,’ chuckled Meenu. ‘But I am glad you did,’ she said looking up.
‘You are?’ he asked pausing in his strides and looking into her eyes for longer than a moment. ‘Are you with someone tonight?’ he asked drawing even closer to her.
Meenu’s eyes lit up with mischief. ‘I am with the entire office, Rakesh,’ she said with a laugh. And then she tugged at his elbow, ‘Come, my friends are going to be thrilled to meet you. They’ve been raving about the food. Let me show you off.’
After introducing him to her friends, she siphoned him off indoors taking him straight to Mistry.
‘Shahroukh, meet the man behind the starters. Rakesh – head chef and owner of Chutneyed. Shahroukh Mistry, my associate editor,’ said Meenu introducing the two.
‘The food’s fucking good Rakesh,’ said Mistry giving a hearty thump on Rakesh’s shoulder.
‘He is actually a friend,’ added Meenu, quite proudly.
‘Friend or boyfriend?’ demanded Mistry shrewdly. ‘You guys look more like a couple.’
After the Storm Page 5