Was it his glibness? Maybe it’s the PR business, I reflected, deciding that it was not going to be my long-term career destination.
As I stepped out of the elevators in the lobby, I ran into a sandy-haired man who looked distinctly familiar.
‘Rick? Rick Martinez?’ I exclaimed in surprise.
‘Ah, Sandy!’ Rick broke into a smile.
‘We met at Beaconsfield in September! I’m so glad you remembered me.’
‘Of course I do! How are you? Liking it at LSE?’
‘It’s wonderful,’ I said happily. ‘I’ve been commissioned to do a new project for Pinwheel Interactive. I’m just out from a meeting with the country head.’
‘That’s awesome! You met McLeod?’
My eyes widened. ‘D’you know him?’
Rick raked his left hand through his hair. ‘Well, I’m just on my way to see him myself. We’re collaborating with Pinwheel for an existing client. Pinwheel is doing traditional PR for that campaign and we’re handling all their digital outreach.’
‘How exciting!’ I cried, remembering that he worked for a digital consulting firm, Trychlen.
‘Gotta run now!’ Rick said. ‘Good luck with your project. Send my best to Nimmy. We should all catch up again.’
17 November
The media career carnival Ritchie had told me about weeks ago was as exhaustive as the ExCEL London Centre website promised it would be. I loped into the fair after a three-hour wait for a ticket. Colourful banners of all media bigwigs –from Bloomberg News to The Guardian – danced before me, from portable stalls swarming with journalism hopefuls and videographers televising the event. The BBC World Service booth was my first port of call. A cheerful, young blonde in a beige linen suit introduced herself as Keisha Douglas and shook my hand at the podium.
‘Sandy Raman from the London School of Economics,’ I smiled.
‘Hey, I’m an LSE alum too!’ Keisha chimed in excitedly. ‘I graduated two years ago.’
We chatted a bit about LSE.
‘I was earlier a crime news reporter for ABP News in Mumbai,’ I mentioned, handing her a show reel that ABP had done for me earlier in the year. On its cover was the picture of a globe against a watermarked montage of news stories I had done for the channel. My title card ran across the header. Keisha swiftly scanned the little blurb on the back of my show reel. ‘You’ve covered the Mumbai terror attacks and the travel ban on Indian workers in Bahrain … those migrants were all released, weren’t they?’
I nodded. ‘About 112 migrant workers, detained in Bahrain for six years were released about two weeks after that story broke out on ABP.’
Keisha’s face turned into a broad smile. ‘Well, it seems that I should be asking you for a job!’
I was momentarily taken aback at the unexpected compliment. I began to warm up to her childlike fervour and genuine affability. ‘I have a long way to go,’ I stated modestly.
‘I’ve started an independent awareness drive for disabled children and teens,’ Keisha mentioned, tucking my show reel into a plastic folder on the desk. ‘It’s called Lionheart. I’m toying with an idea for a more targeted campaign. Would you be interested in leading it with me?’
A novice like me with a BBC TV series producer? I couldn’t say more than, ‘Wow.’
A brief spell of silence followed before Keisha solemnly inquired, ‘Do you have any kind of reporting or campaigning experience in the area of disability rights?’
‘Not really. But I’ve interacted with the mentally disabled. I believe I understand how they think. The niece of a friend, who works for Southall Black Sisters in London, is mentally challenged. I have some ideas that I think will work.’
Keisha smiled and handed me her business card. ‘Sounds good, Sandy. Email me.’
Most of the other talent scouts I met were channel editors from ITV, Channel 4, Channel 5 and BBC News. Many were eyeing producers they could commission for documentaries of their choosing. But I wasn’t an established producer yet. I paused by a Costa Cafe on my way out. A pair of icy-cold hands roughly grabbed my shoulders from behind. Panic seized me.
A familiar accented voice boomed in my ears. ‘Ahh, Sandy … did I freak you out enough?’
I whirled around to see Ritchie grinning from ear to ear.
‘Bloody hell!’ I exclaimed, exhaling in relief and annoyance as I rubbed my shoulder. ‘Have you any idea I fell in a bramble bush just two weeks ago?’
‘Oh?’
I briefly told Ritchie what had happened, right up to my belief that one or more members of the Sawant family were in some kind of danger.
Ritchie cast an amused smile. ‘So, you’re playing detective, eh?’
I laughed.
Ritchie gestured at the menu ahead of us. ‘What would you like to have?’
I ordered a hot chocolate and Ritchie got a black coffee with a Cornish pastry.
‘That’s my lunch,’ he grinned sheepishly, when we seated ourselves at a table in the hallway.
‘So, you did attend this event after all,’ I began. ‘Was it useful?’
Ritchie peeled away the edges of paper that stuck to his soggy patty. ‘I met a production guy who has a contact in Zurich. Might be a potential client for Flamingo.’
‘Fire out!’ I exclaimed.
‘Good going on the EGG grant,’ Ritchie mumbled between munches. ‘How’s the TV station coming along?’
‘Our business manager, Lanong, ordered fifteen LCD screens from Argos last afternoon,’ I replied jubilantly.
‘Ahh!’ Ritchie nodded, impressed. ‘Are you replacing the screen at the Quad café? It’s lousy.’
‘We’ve identified some high-priority locations. I don’t know if the Quad is on that list.’
A faraway look replaced the raptness in Ritchie’s eyes. ‘Did you read that piece in The Financial Times today?’ he asked.
‘Nope. What’s in there?’
‘EGG is dishing out money to penniless students like us.’ Ritchie fished around in his backpack and slid a copy of the newspaper across the table. It was folded at the page that carried the article Ritchie was referring to.
‘Gregersen Foundation Sets up £100Mn Fund for Oxbridge, LSE Students,’ the headline read. ‘In Europe’s biggest private philanthropic push to open up higher education to young international students, EGG’s top chief Lord Melvin Bradshaw will seed a scholarship fund with £50 million,’ the story began. ‘Dubbed the Gregersen International Scholarship, the fund will support its first 100 students from April next year. Lord Bradshaw will release two more tranches of £15 million each. Other donors are being urged to contribute a further £20 million …’
I glanced up at Ritchie. ‘Are you applying?’
Ritchie snorted. ‘No time. I’m juggling LSE work and two part-time jobs. Building a client base for Flamingo, too. I probably don’t need the funds as much as you do.’
‘Ever the sparkly entrepreneur,’ I grinned. ‘Well, I just got some extra cash from a research project I completed for Pinwheel Interactive. In fact, EGG is one of their clients too.’
‘That’s great, San. Do consider applying though.’
‘Why, that was a wonderful surprise, Nimmy. Fidelio was magical!’ I exclaimed as we walked out of the Royal Festival Hall’s famed German opera later that evening.
After a long, tiring day at ExCEL London, I wasn’t expecting to do more than chill out with Nimmy over flat whites on Liverpool Street after work. But Nimmy had instructed me to get off at the Bank Underground. From there, we had hopped into a cab to the lavish South Bank complex.
Now, he grinned lopsidedly. ‘Leonora made it so much more poignant.’
‘The lady who played Florestan’s wife?’
Nimmy nodded.
I glanced at him like a starry-eyed high-school girl on her first date. His growing affection for me had urged me to acclimatise to the heady rush of excitement holding sway whenever I was around him. I had long since overlooked his outburst at t
he lawn garden when we had discussed Asha.
Now, he wore a pair of pale silver chinos and a burgundy panama suit over a matching knitted waistcoat that accentuated the marigold flecks of his eyes. His partial Duchene grin flamed my sensibilities with a fresh yearning.
What was it about Nimmy that drew me to him? Was it his vulnerability? His intelligence? His obscure resemblance to Saahil?
‘Given my sparse knowledge of the opera scene, I feel like a dunce,’ I gabbled finally.
‘You’ll catch up soon enough,’ Nimmy chuckled. ‘Feel like a munch? I know a nice little Turkish bistro in Covent Garden.’
‘That sounds exotic!’
We boarded a ferry to the Savoy pier and ambled towards the deck. I let the floodgates of my consciousness open up to a stupefying haze as I leaned forward against the rail and drank in the breathtaking seascape around us – little white boats and clippers being moored on the river, thick tufts of cloud swimming across a bruised sky, the bascules of the Tower Bridge swinging upwards as it glimmered like a tiger’s eye in the shadows of an impending nightfall …
A shudder ran down my back as Nimmy twirled a lock of my hair around his finger. I turned to face him. He lifted my chin with a tenderness that made me light-headed. His eyes shimmered with ravenous hunger as he pressed himself against me and gently kissed my lips. I gasped and moaned with longing. ‘Good heavens.’ I gulped, when we pulled apart.
An announcement for the Savoy Pier rang out from somewhere around us.
A loud sob barreled into my throat. ‘What happened to Saahil was too traumatic, too painful. I never imagined I could ever feel this way again after …’
Nimmy placed a finger on my lips. ‘Let’s just go with the flow, San,’ he whispered.
He wrapped his arm around me, murmuring sweet nothings as we joined the line of passengers moving towards the dock.
When we got home, I went up to the colonnaded roof-level porch on the third floor hoping to walk off the heaviness from our three-course meal at Sarastro. As I strolled down in the terrace, I rang my brother, Sri, on Whatsapp.
Sri, who had been single for all these years, was now going steady with a colleague who had joined his firm recently. Hearing him jabber excitedly about the intense connection he felt with her made me feel happy, but also evoked a jumble of emotions, which alternated between my loneliness for Saahil and my growing attraction to Nimmy.
‘You have an early start tomorrow, don’t you? It’s getting late for you back there,’ I told Sri, finally.
‘Yes. Love you, Sandhya. Remember to leave the past behind and look ahead to the future. The past is helpful only insofar as it facilitates the future,’ Sri said, before we rang off.
I knew he was hinting at my grief over losing Saahil. My father and brother had never openly approved of my relationship with Saahil, but they couldn’t have been more supportive after he died. ‘You have to go on. It’s what Saahil would have wanted for you, too,’ Appa had told me as we prepared our joint net worth statements for my UK visa, four months ago, after he mortgaged his home in Tanjore to get a loan sanctioned for me.
I leaned against the terrace wall and stared straight ahead, ruminating over the unexpected course my relationship with Nimmy had taken since Rosie’s visit earlier this month. A black limousine glided into view as it neared the bend in the road ahead and halted. Through the window-shield, I saw the silhouette of a couple embracing passionately. The man behind the wheel had his back to me. A fedora hat and the collars of a business suit concealed most of his hair. He leaned towards the woman. She threw her head back and laughed. Then, he pulled her towards him and kissed her. Boy, did they seem happy. Could Nimmy and I be as joyful as them? Or would the concern inherent in Nimmy’s affection for Asha spill over into our relationship?
I noticed a car-hanger swinging from the rearview mirror. It appeared to be a falcon. The doors of the limousine slid open and the woman stepped out. As the man briefly rested one hand on the wheel, a massive gemstone glinted on one of his fingers. He turned on the ignition, made a wide U-turn and zoomed off towards Warden Avenue. The woman walked towards 83 Capthorne Avenue. The wavy hair … the curve of her hips …
Nidhi? I thought, surprised and even mildly impressed. She didn’t seem the type who would date a doyen in a fedora hat.
A door slammed below. Then, Shailaja’s grating voice. ‘Sandhya! Are you still up there? Nidhi just got in and we need to lock the terrace …’
I glanced at my watch. It was close to 10.00 p.m. I retreated from the deck and headed back down.
Shailaja was at the stove, frying a dosa.
‘This new case is a nightmare,’ Nidhi said. ‘Just returned from High Wycombe. There was a train delay in West Ruislip on the way back, too.’
‘Take it easy,’ Shailaja said, flipping the dosa over.
‘You must be tired. I’ll help out,’ I offered.
‘That would be nice, Sandhya,’ Shailaja said.
I began stirring the batter.
‘Walking back here from the station took me forever. I shouldn’t have worn those high heels,’ Nidhi groaned, massaging her feet.
I was flattening a ladleful of batter on the frying pan when I stiffened. Why is she lying?
4 December
With his shifty eyes and phony smile, Jeffrey Stuart gave me the heebie-jeebies. He was the deputy chief executive of SIGNAL, or Society for Inclusive Growth at a National Level, a leading disability charity in the UK.
Charlotte Hale, whose programme I had earlier listened to in Nimmy’s car, had featured one of SIGNAL’s campaigns as an appeal on her BBC radio show earlier this year. I was awestruck to learn that Keisha knew Charlotte well. We were hoping to get SIGNAL in as a sponsoring partner for Lionheart. Unsurprisingly, Jeff was a lead from Charlotte.
Now, he peered at us over the rim of his crescent-moon eyeglasses. ‘I’m not entirely sure of the exact nature of the programme you have in mind,’ he said. ‘What’s more, I’m not at all certain that the media should exploit the condition of disabled individuals.’
‘Lionheart is independent of my work for the BBC, Jeff. And the BBC doesn’t openly champion any specific initiative,’ Keisha answered, unruffled.
Jeff looked dubious. ‘What background do you have in dealing with rights and issues concerning disabled individuals?’ It was the same question Keisha had amiably asked me a few weeks ago. But Jeff sounded tough as hell. He was no fan of journalists, as far as I could tell.
‘I’ve produced and developed a host of formats and specials for programmes like See Hear and Children in Need,’ Keisha said.
Jeff scratched his greying beard skeptically. ‘See Hear?’ he repeated.
‘See Hear airs on BBC 2 at one p.m. on Wednesdays,’ Keisha informed. ‘The programme broadcasts content for the deaf and mute community. And Children in Need is a fundraising initiative for disadvantaged young people across the country. The BBC uses those funds to …’
‘I’ve heard of Children in Need,’ Jeff snapped.
‘The idea for Lionheart took shape when I organised a biking event to raise scholarship funds for children at St Ann School and other special needs institutions earlier this year,’ Keisha explained.
Jeff nodded, perking up with interest.
‘As part of Lionheart, we’re conducting interactive workshops to raise awareness of self-protection and street skills among the mentally challenged,’ Keisha continued. ‘Our target centres are special schools, day-care facilities and residential homes. We’re pitching for a national tour to launch our workshops. We would also like to enlist SIGNAL’s trainers to provide self-defense lessons to special needs groups that are interested in getting in touch with us after the tour.’
I beamed proudly. My idea. I was flattered that Keisha had incorporated it into her core strategy.
Jeff nodded with an emphatic, ‘Ahh …’
Encouraged by his response, I added, ‘We’re also addressing the need to improve care for the
mentally disabled at schools, workplaces, homes and …’
A discreet nudge from Keisha stopped me mid-sentence.
Jeff’s clear blue eyes flashed like aquamarines. ‘Would I fund an initiative that implicates special schools and daycare centres by suggesting they provide insufficient care?’ he said icily.
Uh-oh. Several daycare centres and special schools were members of SIGNAL, after all. And what I had just said suggested that I was questioning SIGNAL’s role in safeguarding the rights of the disabled.
Why wouldn’t you just shut up and listen? You haven’t done this before! I reprimanded myself.
‘My partner meant to talk about a call for improved public welfare systems, rather than the care fostered in institutions,’ Keisha interjected, handing him a slim paper folder ‘That’s our concept note. I’ll send you a detailed brief on our campaign agenda.’
The thunderous expression on Jeff’s face dissolved as we shook hands and retreated.
‘I-I’m really sorry about what happened,’ I mumbled ruefully as we headed south towards Paddington.
‘Got ten minutes?’ Keisha said, motioning towards a promenade overlooking a warren of waterways and canal boats. My stomach sank. As I followed her, I prayed that I wouldn’t be kicked out for my amateurish behaviour.
‘Wow!’ I exclaimed as we sipped tall lattes outside the Waterside café.
Keisha had just offered me the role of a paid freelance production assistant for Streetsmart, a new television show she had proposed to her team. I didn’t dare ask what kind of pay I could expect – I was simply grateful for the golden opportunity.
‘Streetsmart is an interactive programme that will teach developmentally challenged children and young adults better life skills for when they’re out in public,’ Keisha explained. ‘If we get the green light next week, broadcasts will begin mid or late Jan.’
‘Is it a talk show?’ I asked, draining the last few dregs of my latte.
‘No,’ Keisha replied, signaling at a passing waiter for the bill. ‘It’s an educational programme interspersed with interviews. My boss, Alfred and I are screening experts and people who face everyday challenges. We need to find a good story to feature on the show.’
Victims for Sale Page 5