‘Hi!’ I reply. ‘What brings you to Bengaluru?’ I ask, and before he can reply, I say, ‘Not our best weather today.’
Do I need to come around my desk and greet him?
This morning, he and I are not a good vibe. Just as well that we have this massive mahogany desk between us.
Vedveer is looking at me like I’m a book, the pages of which he is trying hard to read.
He’s probably here because of the newspaper article. If that’s the case, I suppose it’s decent of him to show up at my door – unannounced, sure – but still better than just calling. Though, to be honest, a phone call might’ve done the job just fine.
I’m opening and closing my palm, and Vedveer’s eyes are on my hand.
He pulls back a chair and takes a seat; he is breathing hard. My feet are bare and are shifting under the table, looking for my kitten heels.
‘Looking for your footwear?’ he asks.
I laugh, and he finally smiles. He had fished out my sandalsfrom under the table the last time he was here.
‘Coffee?’ I ask without thinking but correct myself quickly. ‘Tea? Masala chai?’
Vedveer nods. His second attempt at a smile this morning is a shoddy half-effort. His eyes are without their characteristic sparkle; they look spent.
I should’ve maybe explained that the tea is freshly brewed, because who knows how these finicky folks drink their tea. I’m second-guessing myself.
Vedveer’s eyes haven’t left my face, nor has the troubled strain diluted. He clenches his jaw.
I pick up the intercom and place the order. ‘One masala chai, one cappuccino, for me,’ I say, before adding, ‘and yes, the bakery basket.’ Mohit is trying to tell me something, which I realize only after I disconnect the intercom.
‘How have you been?’ I ask.
‘Things,’ he says slowly. ‘I’ve been busy.’
Things.He’s always economical with words, but today, he is penurious.
You don’t travel a thousand miles by air unless something’s really eating at you.
The newspaper article?
Something else?
Is it etiquette that forbids him from bringing up whatever it is he has come here to talk about until the tray has come and gone? Is that a royal custom?
‘I’ve been caught up with work,’ he clarifies, looking around the room.
The silence is awkward, but I let it lie, allowing it to extend, seconds into minutes.
There is a knock on the door; the beverages arrive. I look at my watch; it has been seven minutes since I placed the order. The wait is longer than usual, because of the tea, I presume.
No sooner is the tray placed on the table than I notice Vedveer inhaling the aroma. I pat my back mentally; our tea is on par. I look more closely at the cup. It isn’t masala chai; it is a yellowish liquid. Has Mohit served turmeric tea when I specifically asked for masala chai? Is that what he was trying to tell me, that we had run out of masala chai, when I hastily disconnected the phone?
Vedveer picks up his cup and raises it on a celebratory note before sipping his beverage.
‘That’s not masala chai,’ I say. I’m sure he’s aware; he’s a connoisseur, but still, I should let him know.
‘It’s oolong,’ he says with a flicker of a smile. ‘You should try it sometime; it’s very good.’
I nod. Drink tea, that is the only thing left for me to do!
Vedveer takes another sip of this ‘very good’ oolong tea, which I didn’t know we had on our menu, and reaches for the banana bread cookie I’m eyeing.
