She threw him an exasperated look. ‘How can you say that? There were eighty dozen photos!’
‘Photos of women stepping out of his apartment. Walia wasn’t in any of those photos. Maybe he wasn’t even at home,’ Dibakar reasoned.
‘Do you think I’m naive enough to believe that those Brazilian escorts were actually cleaning ladies?’ Nidhi sputtered.
Dibakar suppressed a smile.
‘Come on, Dibakar!’
‘I doubt that the man dating Natasha Sahay is wasting his time with escorts—Brazilian, or any other nationality,’ Dibakar smiled.
‘It doesn’t matter who he’s dating,’ Nidhi said, ignoring his attempt at humour. ‘He’s known for his sexual exploits, offensive language, and foul temper on and off the field. I don’t think he’s the right fit for our brand,’ she finished a little desperately.
‘He thinks he is.’
Nidhi blinked. ‘He does?’
‘His manager does, anyway.’
‘Then maybe his manager should endorse EducateIn. He would be an infinitely better choice than the biggest celebrity brat in the country!’
Dibakar sighed. ‘Are you done?’
Not even close. But she could see from Dibakar’s flustered expression that he’d had enough.
‘Yes,’ Nidhi relented with visible reluctance. ‘But if our brand scores plummet because of him, I’m not responsible!’
‘Nidhi, he is the biggest cricket star in the country. And we are getting him for free.’
‘Because he wants to remedy his tainted public image, not because he cares about educating India.’
‘He does a lot of charity work, you know?’
Nidhi frowned. ‘I’ve never heard anything like that.’
‘Because he does it quietly, away from the public eye. He doesn’t do it for the PR,’ Dibakar said with a smug smile.
‘Is that the reason he wants to endorse EducateIn? Because it’s “away from the public eye”?’ Nidhi countered dryly.
‘His motivations are irrelevant. Having him as the face of our brand is going to get us more eyeballs than we can ever amass on our own.’
‘And what about the eyeballs he will get? We’re planning three full-page ads a week—it’s a win-win for him!’
Dibakar narrowed his eyes, watching her carefully. ‘What is your problem with Vikram Walia?’
‘Nothing,’ Nidhi grumbled.
‘Good, because he’ll be here at 3 p.m. tomorrow. Now run-run and get your notebook so we can discuss the arrangements for tomorrow’s meeting.’
Nidhi intentionally walked out of Dibakar’s cabin at an unnaturally slow pace. He was always asking her to ‘run-run and do this’ or ‘run-run and do that’, and it annoyed her no end. Especially on a day when a project so close to her heart had basically fallen apart.
Damn you, Aamir Khan, for ruining my life.
Vikram lounged on his grandmother’s bedraggled beige sofa, propping his legs up on the old glass coffee table. Even though Dadi had passed away three years ago, he could almost hear her bearing down on him, her voice a high-pitched shriek, ‘Feet off the table!’
Instinctively, Vikram lowered his feet.
‘How long are we going to stay here?’ Monty asked, looking around at the dingy, old living room with obvious distaste.
‘As long as we’re in Delhi, we’ll stay here,’ Vikram said.
‘Don’t joke!’ Monty gasped, taking out his handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat from his brow. It was fifteen degrees outside.
‘I’m serious. The DDCA is only ten kilometres from here and I’ll be training there with Coach.’
‘We will be in Dilli for kam-se-kam two weeks. Don’t you think it is better if we stay in a hotul?’ Monty suggested.
‘Staying at home is the only way I can stomach living in this city,’ Vikram said with disgust.
Monty raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you grow up in Dilli?’
‘Unfortunately.’ Vikram nodded, absently placing his feet on the table.
‘Are you deaf?’ Dadi’s voice rang in his ears. ‘Take your feet off the table this instant! This is not your house—at least not until I am dead!’
Vikram’s exact response to that during his last visit had been, ‘And when do you think that blessed event will take place?’
His grandmother had burst out laughing at his insolence.
Vikram smiled at the memory and took his feet off the table.
‘Why don’t you just sell this house?’ Monty asked.
‘Because . . .’ Vikram’s voice trailed off.
Come to think of it, why hadn’t he sold the house? Located by the Ring Road in Lajpat Nagar, the house was around 1000 square yards, and even though it had been constructed in the late fifties, it had two floors, a large garden flanked by shisham trees and a driveway on the side long enough to park four cars. Sure, the bushes and trees in the garden required pruning, the large cracks in the driveway needed to be filled, and the interior of the house could use a complete overhaul, but Vikram was certain the house would fetch a few crores, at least.
‘The going rate for main road kothi in Lajpat Nagar is eighty crores,’ Monty said, reaching for his pills.
Vikram looked up in surprise. ‘Sach mein?’ He glanced around at the cracks in the walls, the paint hanging off the wooden doors, the innumerable dents and scratches in the marble below his feet and back at Monty. ‘This house will fetch eighty crores?’
‘This house will not even fetch eighty rupees.’ Monty grimaced, popping an anti-anxiety pill. ‘The land is worth eighty crores. And if a builder constructs sexy apartments here, he could sell it for much more.’
‘Wow.’
‘How can you be so clueless about your own finances?’ Monty asked, looking appalled.
‘That’s what I have you for.’ Vikram grinned.
After leading the Under-19 team to a World Cup win, Vikram’s life had changed. Not only because he was recruited for the national team, but also because he was inundated with endorsement offers. Overwhelmed by the sudden and unprecedented attention from sponsors, Vikram had turned for guidance to his coach, who referred him to his second cousin from Kapurthala. And that is how Monty Bhalla became Vikram’s first, and only, manager.
Unlike many of his teammates who, upon gaining fame and success, had moved on to professional sports management companies, Vikram had retained Monty. The guy was sharp, well connected and incredibly enterprising, which is why it didn’t irk Vikram in the least that his commission was 5 per cent higher than the industry norm. But what made the extra fee absolutely worth it was the one trait Vikram attributed utmost importance to, the one trait that money couldn’t buy—loyalty.
Monty’s sole interest in life was Vikram’s well-being, which included improving his game, increasing his wealth and enhancing his public image—the latter being the only department Monty sometimes struggled with. Not that Vikram could blame him.
While most of his teammates’ managers were thirty-year-olds in crisp business suits who spoke impeccable English, Vikram had Monty Bhalla.
At forty-one, divorced and without kids, Monty was always seen in bright Hawaiian shirts—the first four buttons of which, irrespective of the weather, were always open—and more jewellery than most women. Monty’s accent could only be understood by a trained Punjabi ear, but luckily for Vikram, his grandmother had spoken English almost exactly as Monty did, without any attention to grammar.
‘If you are sure you will never move back to Dilli, I can put out offer in market?’
‘I’m absolutely certain. I’m not a Delhi person,’ Vikram said.
‘Okay. Let me make some inquiries,’ Monty said, whipping out his phone.
‘Before that, could you please find me a gym nearby?’
‘Gold’s Gym at Defence Colony. I already spoke to their security team.’
‘Thanks. Could you also leave a message with Singhal’s secretary? I’ve been trying his cell phone for the past two days,’ Vikram s
aid, referring to his best friend.
‘Already done. He is in Japan for one week, he will be back next Monday,’ Monty said.
‘What’s that son of a bitch doing in Japan?’ Vikram wondered out loud.
Monty chuckled. ‘Rohan Singhal is no longer small fish. He is rubbing shoulders with big-time global investors. Market mein rumour hai ki Shopcart.com is going to raise one billion dollar.’
‘Wow. No wonder the asshole has been avoiding my calls,’ Vikram joked.
‘I have ultimate idea!’ Monty exclaimed and Vikram smiled at the way his manager’s face lit up. ‘Ultimate’ was Monty’s go-to adjective to describe anything he deemed even remotely cool. ‘Why don’t you become brand ambassador of Shopcart?’ Monty suggested, already working out the mechanics of the deal in his head.
‘I think Singhal can do much better than an out-of-work cricketer like me,’ Vikram said dryly.
‘But you are second-highest-paid sportsman in India. And if Rohan has one billion dollar, he can pukka afford you!’ Monty explained, visibly excited.
‘If Singhal ever stooped to the likes of me, I would do it for free!’ Vikram chuckled, knowing the proposition would drive Monty crazy.
‘Again joke!’ Monty complained, looking genuinely worried. ‘That’s five crores right there.’
‘So sell the house for five crores extra.’ Vikram shrugged.
Monty went almost purple with anxiety. ‘Lekin Vikram—’
‘I’m going upstairs to take a nap.’
‘But can we talk about—’
Vikram shook his head firmly, signalling the end of the conversation. ‘You can take the master bedroom downstairs.’
‘Wah. Thanks,’ Monty said ungratefully.
Vikram grinned at him and strode up the stairs to his childhood bedroom. He looked at the mantel, still filled with his trophies and medals. Framed certificates and newspaper clippings of his achievements decorated the walls, and his old bat rested artlessly in a corner. He walked over and lifted the bat, a little surprised by how light it felt in his hands. Running his hands over the Kashmir willow and the discoloured SG sticker, he smiled to himself.
He took a step towards the window and found it jammed. He struggled with it for a few minutes, pushing hard at the pane, until the stubborn thing finally creaked open. He closed his eyes against the waft of the cool March breeze that sneaked in. But his tranquil smile transformed into a bitter scowl as soon as he opened his eyes. His window, located on the side of the house, right above his driveway, directly faced that of his next-door neighbour and arch enemy Nidhi Marwah. True, it had been twelve years since he had last seen her, so maybe ‘arch enemy’ was a tad extreme. But frankly, if he never saw her again, it would be too soon.
Pushing away thoughts of her from his mind, Vikram flopped down on his bed and instantly fell into a deep slumber.
‘Bhimsen,’ Nidhi whispered to the snoring guard. ‘Open the gate!’
The snoring only got louder.
Typical, Nidhi thought with a sigh. If a burglar walked into the house right now, Bhimsen would sleep through the entire robbery, then wake up the next morning and argue that he had not been snoring in his sleep.
‘Bhimsen!’ Nidhi hissed, louder this time, hoping to be heard over the late-night nineties’ music blaring through the guard’s radio. But the man didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he continued to breathe in tandem with ‘Haye Hukku Haye Hukku Haye Haye.’
It was nearly 11 p.m. and, in a few minutes, Nidhi’s father would be getting ready for bed. On most nights, he didn’t really bother to check in on her, but if this was one of those rare occasions when he knocked on her door to wish her goodnight, she was in big trouble.
Nidhi wasn’t allowed to stay out of the house after 10 p.m. without prior permission, and she absolutely did not want her father to find out that she had spent the last couple of hours drinking with her friends Risha and Tanvi. So the present situation did not bode well for Nidhi.
‘Time for plan B,’ she muttered to herself, dialling the cook’s cell phone number. ‘Mangal Singh?’ she whispered into the phone.
‘Yes, Nidhi Baby?’ he whispered back.
‘Why are you whispering?’ she asked.
‘Because you are whispering,’ he answered.
Nidhi bit back a laugh. ‘Is Papa asleep?’
‘No, Nidhi Baby. But he is getting ready for bed.’
‘I’m outside the main gate and, as usual, Bhimsen is fast asleep. I’m going to climb over the gate and walk down the driveway. Can you let me in through the side entrance?’ Nidhi asked.
‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ Nidhi responded.
‘Okay,’ he repeated.
‘Why aren’t you hanging up?’ she demanded.
‘Because you are not hanging up,’ he said.
‘Phone rakho and come to the door!’ she said in a loud whisper.
‘Okay.’
Nidhi slung her backpack over both shoulders, starting her climb over the wrought-iron gate with seeming confidence. Unfortunately, as she was crossing over, one of her belt loops got caught on a spike. She gave a small yelp as she hung, half suspended in the air.
Oblivious to the pair of scrutinizing eyes at the window of the Walias’ house, Nidhi tried to untangle herself. ‘Dammit!’ she hissed, then clamped a hand over her mouth.
With an amused smile, Vikram watched a girl climb over the Marwahs’ gate, get stuck in one of its spikes, finally undo herself and scamper stealthily to the side entrance. It was dark, so he couldn’t really make out her features, but her silhouette was definitely sexy. Before Vikram had the opportunity to apprise the rest of her lithe figure, someone opened the door and let her in. It looked like the Marwahs had a hot houseguest. Or maybe a new tenant.
Because the girl Vikram had just seen looked nothing like the tomboyish daughter of Balraj Marwah.
June 1996
Nidhi dragged her feet through the Walias’ garden, promising herself that this was the last time.
For an entire month, Nidhi had knocked on Vikram’s door every day, asking him to come out and play. During the first week, he had slammed the door in her face without a response. Over the following week, he had at least said, ‘No, thanks,’ before closing the door. The third week, he had left the door ajar, listening to her rather convincing sales pitch.
‘I taught Odie how to fetch. Do you want to come play with him?’ or ‘Do you want to check out our new basketball hoop?’ or ‘Bhimsen has a black eye because the football hit him in the face yesterday! Do you want to see it?’
When Nidhi knocked this time, Vikram opened the door with a sigh. ‘What is it now?’
She gave him a bright smile. ‘Do you want to play doubles badminton?’ He opened his mouth to answer, but Nidhi pre-empted his refusal and charged ahead, ‘We have only three racquets, so the last time, Mangal Singh had to use the mosquito swatter. It was really annoying because after a while he lost interest in the shuttlecock and started whacking mosquitoes. Bhimsen was worried that Mangal would collect all the dead mosquitoes and use them in pulao instead of jeera.’
A smile tugged at Vikram’s lips.
‘So what do you say?’ Nidhi asked hopefully.
‘You can borrow my racquet,’ Vikram said, deliberately misunderstanding her question.
If this were any other day, Nidhi would have jumped at the chance. After all, a borrowed racquet guaranteed another audience with him when she returned it.
But Nidhi’s little heart had taken all the rejection it could handle, so she shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll manage with what I have.’
When she entered her own garden, the Trio saw her crestfallen face, and their expectant smiles turned reassuring.
‘It’s okay, Nidhi Baby. The four of us will play!’ Mangal Singh said.
‘No, it’s fine. You all can go back to work,’ Nidhi said, slumping down on the grass, with her elbows on her knees and her face between her palms, a p
ortrait of dejection.
‘Come on, Nidhi Baby,’ Rao chimed in. ‘It will be fun.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Nidhi whispered.
‘You can be on my team and we will beat these Indians very-very badly!’ Bhimsen said, trying to goad her into admitting that she too was Indian and thus could never play against India.
Nidhi plucked out a fistful of grass and shook her head. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘That’s too bad,’ spoke a voice from behind her. ‘I was hoping to beat you.’
Nidhi jerked her head around. Standing at the gate with a badminton racquet in his hand—and a friendly grin on his face—was Vikram.
March 2014
News Today Office Messenger Chat
Participants: Nidhi13, Risha_K
Nidhi13: You’re the worst friend in the world.
Risha_K: Hey, don’t blame me! The first rhyme my dad ever taught me was ‘Whisky before beer, have no fear; beer before whisky, very risky’. But did you listen to me? Of course not!
Nidhi13: I want to sleep for the next three weeks. Or at least until the throbbing in my head subsides.
Risha_K: I’m only working half-day today, so I’m going home to sleep as soon as this conversation is over. PS: Please make it quick.
Nidhi13: You journalists and your flexi timings. Some people have all the luck.
Risha_K: We also get paid about half of what you marketing folks get paid, so suck it up.
Nidhi13: How’s Shorty doing?
Risha_K: I’m sure her liver of steel is unscathed. She’s probably pacing up and down the length of the 17th floor shouting threats into her Bluetooth.
Nidhi13: I’ll bet. This is the worst day for a hangover. I would’ve never drunk so much if Aamir Khan hadn’t betrayed my trust.
Risha_K: Vikram Walia is a great alternative.
Nidhi13: For the nine-millionth time, no, he’s not. He’s an ass.
Risha_K: Haven’t seen his ass, but I’m sure it’s as glorious as his six-foot frame. He’s super hot.
Nidhi13: And that should be the criteria for selecting a brand ambassador?
Risha_K: So you agree he’s hot?
Man of Her Match Page 2