My revelation was met with radio silence, which is Chhaya’s standard reaction to an unexpected shift in conversation. She needed time to digest. A whole tea cake could be sliced in the interim.
‘Who?’ she asked lamely, holding my gaze before her eyes shifted to a spot beyond me, as if she was trying to place someone in the distance.
I nodded.
‘What?’ she asked as she pulled herself together, sitting upright. ‘TheAndrew Brown? Our schoolmate?’
‘The very same.’
‘Are you happy? Wait, you have to be happy… No… Savage!’ Then finally, ‘But where has he been all these years?’
My friendship with Chhaya had gaps, from when we first said hello to each other to when we started chatting. Then, again, after school. Chhaya pursued a business management degree, which at first took her away from Bengaluru, after which she sought a transfer and came home, while I studied humanities at a local campus. We didn’t drift apart; we just didn’t keep in touch after strayattempts in the early months. She got busy with her course and family while I was otherwise engaged.
Some three years later, a chance meeting on MG Road got us back on track. I was rushing to the office with a takeaway coffee in my hand when I heard someone call, ‘Myra.’ Chhaya had stopped her car in the middle of Bengaluru’s busiest road and was hollering. I turned abruptly, and the coffee was all over me. ‘Wait right there. I’m coming in a minute,’ she said. Just like that, we were back in each other’s lives.
Her eyes widened briefly, replaced by a wicked smile.
‘He’s a super-successful journalist,’ I said.
‘And so are you.’ She was laughing, but it had a hysterical ring to it. ‘Have you met him?’
I nodded.
‘The ghost who walks!’
‘I’d have stopped at ghost.’
I gave her the lowdown on the Andrew Brown hire, the money and the madness.
I listed the pros and cons ofMorning Herald’s most high-profile addition to the editorial team in recent times, but I kept going back to how the whole exercise had flown over my head. I’d had no idea, none at all.
‘Is he married?’ Chhaya asked, her eyes twinkling.
I shrugged. Like men wear mangalsutras!
‘Is he dating?’
‘How would I know?’
‘What’s he joining as?’
‘He’s not the peon.’
‘Myra!’
‘For now, as the political editor, but the plan is to make him executive editor or whatever. If he st–’
‘Have you guys spoken?’
I nodded slowly.
‘What the fuck! When… How did this happen? Why didn’t you call me?’
I shrugged again.
‘The dress,’ she said, looking at me like she was seeing me for the first time. She was pointing at my navy-blue outfit that had ridden up my legs.
I didn’t adjust my skirt; there was only that much of it.
