‘You should have told me it was a busy night,’ she said once he took his seat.
‘And miss the chance to see you?’ he asked leaning forward to take hold of her fidgety fingers. He then did it – gave her one of those long lingering stares and watched her blush.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ he said standing up suddenly.
He guided her across the restaurant to the stairs that led up to his house. He let her climb first and as they slid out of view, he rested his arm on the small of her back. Meenu stumbled but he steadied her with his other hand, the hand on the small of her back staying put. She turned around to give him a chastising look but his mouth had curled into a mischievous grin. When they reached the door, he sidestepped her to unlock it, his hands lightly brushing her waist. Was he toying with her?
The whole house was covered in darkness and Meenu asked if his mother wasn’t at home.
‘Nope. She’s out with her friends,’ he said turning around. ‘For a late night movie,’ he added, stepping into the house.
‘But who’ll bring her back?’ she asked Rakesh, who had started humming to the music playing from his restaurant.
‘Oh she’s a tough nut. She’ll find her way back,’ he said taking off his shoes and sounding unconcerned.
He then reached for a light switch just behind her, his chin brushing the hollow of her bare shoulders. Meenu felt herself go warm but tried to meet his eyes steadily. But then he had begun to strip out of his chef’s whites right in front of her. He watched with amusement as she looked away flushed.
‘Just give me five minutes’, he said and went to his bedroom. ‘Do you need water or anything,’ he asked popping his head back out.
‘No I am fine,’ she waved him off without looking up.
She saw him emerge out of his bedroom with just a towel around his taut, narrow waist and she thought she caught a glimpse of dark hair stretching below it. But she didn’t dare look up to check. When he did arrive, fully dressed, she ran her eyes over his black denims and charcoal grey shirt that had been rolled at the wrist to reveal strong, sinewy forearms. He hadn’t shaved either, his stubble dark and velvety, the way it had felt on her shoulder.
Seeing her evaluate, he quirked an eyebrow. Had he passed? Meenu who had always had trouble keeping her thoughts to herself remarked, ‘You erm … look smoking hot’.
He gave a deep, throaty chuckle, picked up the house keys near a side table and reached for the switch behind her. Meenu felt her breath shorten as he neared her.
‘Mmmm…’ he said, drawing her close to his chest and burying his head in her hair. ‘Your hair smells heavenly,’ he said running his fingers along the curves of her body and down the back of her spine. Meenu who had let her arms dangle limply by her side put her one arm on his shoulder, resting the other on his chest. He immediately began to scorch her bare shoulders and neck with hot kisses. Meenu let out a low moan and that was it – he scooped her up and put her on the side table, parting her thighs and stepping closer. Meenu met his eyes in the dark, her pulse thrashing at the base of her throat. He inched nearer and dipped his head, his one hand supporting the back of her neck, the other lifting her chin to face him. And then he kissed her hungrily, tasting the butter cream off her lips and pulling back for a moment, smiling in the dark. This time, Meenu tugged at him urgently, kissing him breathless, running her tongue over his, feeling the stubble of his chin against her nose. He slid his arms under her butt and cupped them, pressing her closer against his chest.
‘Ready?’ he asked his breath uneven.
And even in the darkness, he saw her eyes widen, the pupils dilating. After what seemed like a moment, she said softly, ‘Yes, I am.’
He held her tight, close and warm for a little while longer before lifting her off the side table and steadying her.
‘Me too,’ he said giving a peck on her forehead and leading her to the door.
Meenu felt giddy the next morning. Rakesh had dropped her last night after treating her to some amazing wine and risotto at a friend’s bar and kitchen. The friend who had been surprised to see Rakesh out on a date was even more surprised to see him not leave her side when he took them both for a tour around the kitchen.
Over dinner, the two of them had regaled Meenu with their years in Berkshire and how Rakesh had slaved and almost failed to set a stage at FDEK. Quickly, Meenu had learnt that ‘setting a stage’ was securing experience at a top notch kitchen; that FDEK stood for Heston Blumenthal’s The Fat Duck Experimental Kitchen which was different from his restaurant kitchen by the same name; that Rakesh had worked as a kitchen porter (sweeping kitchen waste from the counter) for many months before letting it slip to a line cook that he had a double degree in chemical and industrial engineering. The slip up had earned him a three month entry into Heston’s fab, mad lab.
Meenu had drunk in all the information and was now replaying it in her head, reluctant to face the morning. But if she had any hope of achieving the web target for the month, she had to shower and race across town to catch a couple of kids steer their sail-boats into the choppy Arabian sea.
The commodore of the RMYC had insisted that it would be a sight to behold, not that Meenu required any convincing. Over the last couple of months, she had come to enjoy her visits to the sailing clubs that dotted Mumbai’s Colaba area. The old world charm and decorum that hung about the clubs was refreshing and the contacts she made, valuable. She had also undertaken an introductory course to sailing and could now identify a Seabird class sailboat from an Optimist class sailboat from a kilometre away.
Today was her first opportunity to watch children under fifteen years of age guide their Optimist sailboats against the cold October winds. It was a great photo opportunity not to mention a change from cheering the tony Colabo crowd, the commodore had added with a laugh.
After the race saw the youngest win and all adults seeti their lungs out, Meenu spent some quiet time by the pier. The team took it easy on Saturdays and she didn’t have to rush back to office. After last night, she had to admit that she was quite smitten with Rakesh and that he was nothing like the sambhar mafioso she had imagined him to be. It was clear what she had to do – she had to end whatever Rathore and she had kept up after their fight over the kind of stories she filed and especially after his antics on the night of the office party. But she would do it once he returned, in person. The last time she had tried to maintain distance from Rathore and his desk, the message had never gone across and she had gotten bitten on the lip instead.
Having made a plan to disentangle herself from Rathore, she sauntered off to the Dolphin that housed the bar and dining area. She ordered for a cheese burger and took a seat by the bar, gazing at the pennant shaped burgees of neighbouring and visiting clubs when the commodore marched up to her. The first time they had met, Meenu had been pleasantly surprised to note that it was a woman. The tall, lanky woman was a feisty, fifty year old with a sailor’s crinkly eyes and salt and pepper hair.
‘Enjoyed the race, Minaakshi?’ she enquired, her voice sounding like sandpaper.
‘Ohh yes, Commodore … it was just amazing!’
‘Not to belittle the little one’s efforts but you should try and attend one of the bigger races – the regattas.’
‘Any coming up?’ she asked receiving her plate from the bartender.
‘Well the tri state Dufferin Cup is up in a week’s time but it’s going to be held in Chennai this year.’
‘Oh! Alright’ said Meenu who had never gone sailing in Chennai and admitted as much to the commodore.
The lady didn’t seem to mind and asked if the event could expect some media coverage.
‘Not sure Commodore. Can’t speak for other papers but we don’t have an edition there.’
‘But isn’t The Daily Times a national daily?’ she asked, her eyebrows rising lightly.
Meenu shrugged her shoulders with an apologetic smile.
‘You must at least have a reporter stationed there?’ asked the
commodore rhetorically.
‘Let me find out and get back to you,’ she replied clearly embarrassed.
13
The next morning, at half past six to be precise, Meenu’s smartphone trilled and slid along the yellowed mosaic floor jerking its owner to wakefulness. Padu’ma. Who else would call this early? Meenu had half a mind to ignore the call and return to sleeping but then her mother would only get more persistent.
‘Yeah uhmma?’ she said thickly, not bothering to feign alertness.
‘Hi kanna, good morning!’ Padu’ma replied brightly. ‘How are you?’
‘Sleepy.’
‘Never mind. You can lie down and hear this,’ her mother ordered with considerable excitement.
‘Okay’, said Meenu bracing herself for one of her mother’s ‘must share this gossip otherwise will explode’ moments.
‘Deepa is getting married into the TBS family!’
‘What?’
‘Aaah that got your attention is it,’ said Padu’ma quietly, knowing very well that one of the boys from the TBS family had been soft on Meenu two summers back.
‘No, what amazes me is how Deepa agreed!’ referring to the dancer classmate of Krishna who lived next door.
‘Huh? What is there to refuse?
‘Amma, she is so young! She is Krishna’s age … barely nineteen.’
‘True, she’s young but think about it, she’s never going to land such a good offer!’
‘You make it sound like she has landed a plum job.’
‘Not a job Meenu,’ cut in Padu’ma, ‘The chit just secured a career for life.’
‘What in the world of an idly vada do you mean Amma?’ asked Meenu finally sitting up and propping herself against the pillow.
‘Don’t you know the TBS family is one of the biggest patrons of classical dance and music?’
‘Yes I do,’ mumbled back Meenu, remembering how the entire clan had been shocked by her tone deafness (not to mention lack of rhythm) when they had made her attend concerts from seats specially reserved for their family across sabhas.
Padu’ma was still driving home her point.
‘Every year they donate lakhs towards the upkeep of sabhas in the city.’
‘So?’ asked Meenu unable to connect the dots.
‘Oh Meenu! How can you be so dense? Once that girl enters the family, she can secure a performance slot at any of the sabhas!’
‘Amma, I am sure Deepa has no such plans. The girl has enough self respect to not ask for favours.’
‘Oh come on, have you seen the chit dance? She is no Vyjayanthimala and never will be. Not in this lifetime at least.’
‘God, you guys are a tough crowd,’ Meenu said referring to the sabha-hopping, sambhar-slurping family of hers.
‘Well what else did you think? We are all trained to sing and dance.’
‘Except me.’
‘Yes, except you, thanks to your father,’ grumbled her mother.
Meenu smiled. Her usually self-effacing father had gone ballistic when he had found his six-year-old resting her head on the harmonium and snoring because of a practice session the music teacher had insisted upon right after school. After depositing the protesting music teacher at the gate, he had told Padu’ma in a quiet, stern voice, ‘Meenu can bray like a donkey for all I care, but you are not forcing this on her.’
‘You know what I think?’ asked Padu’ma, interrupting her thoughts. ‘I think Deepa has played her cards very well.’
‘Hmm…’ said Meenu nodding in disbelief, unable to understand why the lean, graceful girl with such promise in her eyes and laughter in her movements had agreed to marry at the young age of nineteen. Even if the offer had been tempting; even if the boys from the TBS stock were all unreasonably handsome, cultured and accomplished.
Padu’ma was still droning on. ‘She’s hurrying to get all preparations done. ‘
‘Who?’
‘Deepa’s mother, who else?’
‘But why does she have to hurry?’
‘Well…’ Meenu thought she heard her mother cough and falter. ‘She wants to conduct the marriage before Deepa changes her mind’.
‘Ahan! So Deepa has doubts about this,’ Meenu berated.
Padu’ma however was still rambling. ‘Girls today are so fickle. That’s why both families are keen to see them married as early as possible.’
‘But what if Deepa changes her mind after the wedding?’
‘Aiyo Rama! Why do you say such ominous things Meenakshi?’ Padu’ma said sounding truly hassled.
‘I am just saying … that in all likelihood this might be a good match. But Deepa is too young! She needs to live a little, explore the world, discover what interests her … you know…’
Padu’ma wanted to say no, she didn’t know. But she desperately wanted Meenakshi to come down for the wedding. Big families with a long list of eligible sons would be attending and she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to show off her daughter.
‘The wedding is on December first and second,’ she said and then straining every vein in her body to not sound as pushy as a raw banana down one’s throat, Padu’ma asked, ‘Do you think you can get leave and come down?’
Surprisingly, Meenu wanted to. She really missed seeing her family and her large crumbling home through which the sun beamed in at the most unexpected corners. Besides, it would be a well earned break from work.
‘Let me apply and see, Amma. I’ll let you know as soon as it gets sanctioned,’ she said and disconnected the call.
Meenu didn’t feel sleepy anymore. She got up and dressed for work even though it was Sunday since she had taken an off on Friday. As she swiped her employee card, she hoped nothing major would break during the day and that she would be able to file her story on the kids’ sailing, provided Zoze approved her story that is.
When she showed the crusty, potbellied Zoze pictures that had been clicked the previous morning, he looked up and said, ‘Three hundred words and get me a three-column photo. Pics are great.’
Meenu was pleased. Three hunded words was a windfall! She had been half worried that only a picture with a deep caption would go. The kids would be elated to see their names on paper. Not the mention their respective sailboats with license number, which the photographer had captured in detail.
After a quick lunch with Chanda, Meenu started typing. Just as she was finishing the second paragraph, she saw a huddle tightening around someone who was standing two aisles away. She craned her neck to see if she could have a better look and to her surprise she saw Mistry in the huddle, smiling and acting like a sycophant. Clearly people from office were fawning over somebody, that somebody not coming into view just now. That’s when Rishi strode up to her.
Meenu looked up with raised eyebrows.
‘Bhabiji’s niece,’ he said with a grin.
‘Who?’
‘The owner’s wife’s niece.’
This time Meenakshi did stop typing.
‘She has joined as a summer intern and of course the entire office is eager to show her around.’
‘And convey all pending promotions?’ Meenu asked dryly.
‘No, I don’t think the editors will talk shop with her. Highly unlikely,’ Rishi replied with certainty.
Why not, asked Meenu craning her neck to take a look at the intern. Ria Mulchandani looked about her brother’s age and kept running her hand through her caramel tinted hair, twirling the blond ends and flashing a vacant smile. Mistry dragged Zoze up to her and introduced the two. He gave Zoze a thump on the shoulder and finally left the crowd, visibly relieved.
When Zoze walked away from the huddle with the girl in tow, he looked lost. Zoze was one of those men who for the life of a roasted cashew couldn’t figure out what to do with a girl who kept flicking her hair and pouting her lips. ‘Give me a girl under the covers and I’ll know what to do’ was more his style. But the two were approaching Meenu’s desk and before long, Zoze deposited the girl gruffly and remarked
, ‘Just take care of her, will you? I have enough going on without Rathore.’
Ms Mulchandani pouted and strutted in a manner that Meenakshi had grown up hoping she would never be caught dead doing. Despite the affectations though, she didn’t feel any irritation. Maybe Meenakshi, like all older siblings, had deep levels of patience, or maybe it was because Ms Mulchandani was genuinely friendly and after the first round of introductions dove straight into questions like ‘You like it here?’, ‘Are there any hot guys around?’, ‘Does Kaka know you?’ and ‘Have you tried colouring your hair. You’ve got really nice hair’.
But when the hair flicks and lip licks grew by the minute, she called Chanda to come and have a look at the baby she was sitting.
Chanda appeared unusually scattered, even for herself. Meenu raised an eyebrow to enquire if anything was the matter for she did have a mercurial boss – one who could tear entire print outs and apparently (and famously) push the shreds down one’s throat.
‘I had to go the mortuary,’ she said wearily.
‘What?’ asked Ria few seats away.
Chanda looked to Meenu but her lips were sealed.
‘Apparently, a terrorist’s body has been lying around in the governement hospital’s mortuary for thirteen years now,’ continued Chanda.
And now even Meenu exclaimed, ‘what?’
‘Yeah … no one is coming forward to claim his body and since it is a police case, the hospital officials can’t dispose the body even.’
‘Waste of space,’ Meenu mumbled.
‘Waste of a cold chamber,’ corrected Chanda.
‘Did you see the body?’ asked Ria, her eyes widening. ‘Like, was it fully naked?’
‘The body has been there for thirteen years. It’s just a bag of…’ Chanda began to say and then stopped short. There was no point contradicting the boss’ niece. ‘Yes it was naked,’ she said with a remarkably straight face.
Meenu tried to cough over the snort that escaped her.
When Chanda walked back to her seat, Ms Mulchandani crinkled her nose and said aloud, ‘OMG, would she have really gone to the government mortuary?’
After the Storm Page 8