As perfectly as her make-up was done, I noticed a puffiness below her eyes. ‘How is married life?’
For the next half hour, Meena told me about her divorce. She was married to a software engineer in Chicago, who was so obsessed with her that he became suspicious of her every move. The way she wore her hair, the timing of her supermarket visits… he even monitored her phone calls. He was so far gone that he disguised himself to spy on her. She fled to her parents’ place six months ago and filed for divorce. The marriage hadn’t lasted a year.
‘Hellooooo,’ Chhaya cooed.
She swooped down to pull us together in a tight embrace.
Meena was quickly on her feet, returning the hug with air kisses. I didn’t move; I was drained.
Chhaya had chosen drab for the day. She had been on the field, having scheduled visits to a couple of troubled highway outlets. One had been burgled and the other had complaints of food poisoning. She was not just a hands-on captain, but where quality was concerned, she gave it personal attention. She had driven 400 kilometres, and she had neither the time nor the energy to change into something more suitable for an evening out.
‘Are you getting ready for marriage, too?’ Meena asked after she filled Chhaya in on her divorce.
‘I wish I was,’ she said, grabbing at a plate and waving to a waiter all at once. ‘Why, who else is?’ she asked as soon as she settled into her seat.
‘Our lady here got herself a makeover and money-bag boyfriend followed.’
Chhaya turned to look at me but was distracted by my phone, which was lighting up. The network was unreliable in this part of the building. After a spell of quiet, WhatsApp messages were pouring in.
Meena’s eyes were on my phone, and before I could react, she picked it up. ‘You have a message from an Andreeww,’ she said, handing me my phone. Her eyes were glazed.
After Andrew was added to the variousMHgroups, one night, when I wasn’t at my best, I opened an independent contact page and saved his number.
Good interview, Myra.Andrew was congratulating me on my piece on a female lawyer who had taken on the bar in fighting for a rape victim. I had chased Harini Parekhrelentlessly. She hadn’t spoken to any media outlet until she decided to speak to me.
‘Andrew Brown?’ she asked.
‘Yup, the very same,’ I said.
Chhaya added, ‘He joinedMorning Heraldrecently. You remember the fellow from school, right?’
‘You didn’t tell me.’ Meena was pouting now.
‘You were in the throes of shifting, babe, and I thought I’d tell you once you were here.’
Why was I making an excuse? It wasn’t like we spoke every day. We had been reduced to exchanging messages two to three times a year, birthdays mostly.
‘He’s doing his politics stuff?’ Meena asked.
‘Politics stuff?’ Chhaya’s laugh was a bark.
Watching her shift in her seat, it occurred to me that Meena was a creature of intent.
When we were growing up, I’d thought she was moody. What she wanted to know, she took pains to get a clear understanding of, but the rest, she was hazy about. She needed three to four promptings to answer a question like,Where are we meeting?It would start with, ‘Someplace close by,’ to, ‘Oh, let me check if my driver is available,’ then, ‘Gosh, it’s so sunny,’ or, ‘I could’ve walked.’ Then finally, she’d tell you where she would meet you. God help you if you were in a hurry or it was not where you wanted to go.
‘Yeah, he’s the political editor,’ I said.
‘What’s the reaction been like?’ Chhaya asked. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask.’
‘You knew?’ Meena questioned Chhaya. ‘You guys meet often?’ she pressed, waving her index finger at us like we were a pair of errant six-year-olds.
Chhaya smiled.
‘Actually, you could say he’s doing his politics,’ I piped in. ‘His joiningMHhas shifted the balance somewhat, putting certain oldies on the ropes.’
Meena nodded. ‘I’ve been hearing he’s doing really well at work. I thought, initially, his shift from law to media was tame. Clearly, there’s money to be made in reporting, too.’
‘Journalism is his calling,’ Chhaya said. ‘I’ve read some of his work. He’s good.’
