Please reply, if only to say you’re doing okay.That was how my 203-word second message had ended. My body still recoiled at the memory of the day I wrote it; the pain had permeated down to my bones.
‘I never saw those messages, Myraah.’ He grabbed my arms and was shaking me. ‘They never reached me.’
I could still see the blue ticks.
‘Are you sure you sent them to…’ His fingers tightened around my arms. I didn’t flinch. ‘You did send them to me?’
Andrew and I both chose not to mention Meena, for different reasons. I wanted him to tell me about that relationship, only because those are the norms for trade.
I was sure, though, that Andrew hadn’t seen my messages. Meena had deleted them. I was sure of that.
Chapter 15
Rajesh Soor was ubiquitous any time some tittle-tattle was in the air.Morning Herald’s resident gossip placed a cup of direly sweetened filter coffee before me and made himself comfortable in the spare chair. My cabin suddenly felt like the Majestic Bus Station. The odour and the order.
Soor flashed what he thought was a debonair smile, a cue for when he had something malicious to share. My eyes were on his oily curls; the perfumed grease would darken the stain on the backrest.
He slurped the syrupy concoction. I sighed.
Soor had no sense of personal space, physical or otherwise. He was happy to encroach, making it all about him. What he had detected, what he wanted to say. All words, no ear.
Had he seen me with Andrew last night? Was that what the smile was about? I inhaled, held my breath, exhaled. I returned the smile.
Andrew and I were colleagues. We were seated apart, not leaning into each other. The wind had blown between us. I had felt it more than once. In the guidebook of business etiquette, was that improper? Even when not in office?
‘I tell you,’ he said, slapping my desk, making me jump and grabbing my attention all at once.
I cast a quick glance around me, wondering who else had heard that clap of thunder.
The general desk was only just filling up; people were drifting in, dropping bags and turning on machines, enjoying the reprieve air conditioning gave them. The afternoon sun was harsh in April. That’s when I noticed he had shut the door on his way into my cabin. He was squiggling in his seat, trying to move forward. He had spilled some of the coffee on himself.
‘If Brown doesn’t get the interview, he’ll be blacklisted,’ he said, pausing, waiting for me to applaud his pun.
I exhaled, relieved that he hadn’t spotted us, but that was not the reaction Soor was looking for. He continued to wait as I replayed Andrew and me last evening, Andrew walking back to the car, a few steps behind me, jogging the last few yards to get ahead of me and open the car door, waiting for me to sit down, securing the door before walking around to the other side.
I thought I had smiled, but a laugh escaped my lips to the delight of the man seated before me.
My phone pinged. It was Sudha.What does the Boor want?This was our nickname for Soor, whose other areas of specialization included walking into people in near-empty spaces. He’d hurtle towards you with a doubt or question, and god forbid there was no furniture separating him from you.
‘Can you imagine the plight of the poor woman in bed with him?’ Sudha once raised the point as if it were a toast. Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks coloured. We laughed ourselves hoarse, pondering positions, reinventing some.
‘There’s no chance of him getting that interview. How is it possible? Tell me.’
I forced myself to focus on Soor. He was asking me a question, and I didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘Who?’ I asked lamely.
Soor was frothing. He had heard from his sources, who, please be warned, were as flaky as his smile was synthetic, that Andrew was desperately trying to interview Karnataka’s former chief minister, Hari Rao.
Why would Andrew chase Hari Rao? He, of all people, should know the man had stopped giving one-on-one interviews since the death of his son more than a decade ago. He had only recently started addressing press conferences.
‘He probably wants Hari Rao to address the media as a whole maybe.’
I wanted to take those words back, almost as soon as they were out of my mouth. It was possible Andrew thought he could get through to Hari Rao. Be the chosen one. Why wouldn’t someone of his standing not think he could bag that exclusive, the first interview since canned beer!
I leaned back in my seat as I came up with a counter in my head. Andrew was probably thinking of a select interaction, with a handful of journos perhaps, as a nudge for Hari Rao to be open with the media again.
The boor snorted. ‘What is the point in paying him all this money and bringing him here if he can’t deliver? He doesn’t even know the politics.’
My phone was pinging again. It was Chhaya. I had told her last night about my running into Andrew.
