Just asking, did anything happen?
I excused myself to respond to Chhaya. It was a one-word, two-letter reply.
No sooner had I placed my phone on the table than it lit up again with a string of messages. The last one was from Sudha.
Kick him out!Let’s get that coffee. I have to tell you some Andrew Brown gossip.
My face must’ve sparked a serious note because Soor now wanted to know who was messaging me. ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked, but what he meant was, what have you heard? When I didn’t offer him information one way or the other, summoning up a smile instead, he pressed forward with his claims.
‘He calls himself a political analyst when he doesn’t even understand the climate. It must be too hot for him,’ he said, laughing at his own joke. ‘He doesn’t even know he can’t get the interview. When you can’t get it, why commit to it in the contract? There’s only so far an American degree can take you in this country.’
American degree. Harvard. Hmm…
Getting interviews had little or nothing to do with being a political analyst. Apples and oranges. But I suddenly found myself at odds with the situation, Andrew Brown in trouble? Sudha’s message had pushed me on the defensive.Morning Herald’s metro chief had caught onto something, a strain maybe. Still, Andrew’s contract revolving around an interview sounded wildly discordant.
But why was my heart beating faster and harder than usual? It felt like alarm bells, a definite percussion. This had nothing to do with me; this was happening to my ex-boyfriend, who was now my colleague.
‘Maybe Andrew is just trying,’ I said tamely.
Soor shrugged, bouncing on his fleshy bottom. ‘That he should’ve thought about before taking the job,’ he said. ‘It’s normal that editors will ask him to deliver when he’scollecting a big pay cheque. He’s not delivering. Do you know how much he’s earning?’
I wanted to remind the man that Andrew was an editor already.
‘You don’t know?’
I don’t care. ‘Come on! They’ve hardly given him the job because he could cajole Hari Rao to giveMorning Heraldan interview.’Why was I getting into this?
‘That’s what he told them. That’s how the deal was signt.’ Soor couldn’t pronounce signed. I’m not sure he could spell it either.
Soor reached for the steel tumbler he had placed in front of me before pulling himself up. ‘Since you’re not having it, I will,’ he said. ‘We must not waste.’
That was the only part of the conversation I agreed with him.
I waited for Soor to exit my cabin and only then got on my feet. Sudha had messaged me to join her downstairs. I caught a glimpse of her as she left the floor, draped in a crisp green sari. Sudha rarely wore colours. I made a note to tell her that she should rest her black, white and beige saris. I was so wrapped in Sudha’s sari that I almost stepped on the pleats of my own. The women inMorning Heraldhad decided to drape the 100-day sari challenge (in a year) our way – all 101 women in the organization were in the six yards today. Given our work schedules, the places our jobs took us to each day, it was pretty impossible to wear one every third or fourth day, but even this decidedly watered-down version took effort. It was an annual affair, and in the last couple of years, we had done quite well.
I was wearing the only sari I had ever bought. It was the exact replica, at least as far as I could tell, of my mother’s favourite maroon-and-mustard sari, which went with her.I had no intention of buying a sari, but one day, on my way back from an assignment, I passed a sari shop where a mannequin was draped in this sari. That was about a year or so after she passed away. It was only recently, however, that I got a blouse made for it.
I was holding my pleats together and patting them down, and then suddenly, I knew I wasn’t alone in my space any more. I got a whiff of him.
‘I’m sorry! I forgot to knock,’ he said, moving his hands vaguely in my direction. I knew it was me in the sari that had numbed his tongue, but my face gave nothing away. Andrew stepped back and waited until I signalled for him to come in.
He walked towards me. I was still in my cabin, and I took a step back instinctively. The heel of my footwear found the border of my sari.
‘Careful,’ Andrew said, reaching out, his right hand on my left wrist in an effort to steady me. Double shot espresso. My pulse quickened – must’ve been hitting a 100 or a 1,000. I quickly held the table for support, and Andrew shoved his hand in the pocket of his denims.
This is why I don’t wear saris more often; there is just too much to it. The pleats, thepallu, what you tuck into the skirt and where you pin it to the blouse, what you hold up and what you don’t… give me a pair of jeans any day. But a sari is style on two legs, and when you’re done, it reflects in someone else’s eyes. I didn’t need a mirror in my cabin today.
‘Saris really suit you, Myraah,’ Andrew said as he retreated.
‘I was going down to grab a coffee,’ I said, ignoring the compliment. ‘With Sudha,’ I added.
He had seen me in a sari once before when I was in college for Ethnic Day or some such celebration. He had used my father’s car to chauffeur me back and forth.
Andrew apologized and made way for me to exit the cabin.
‘Where have you been?’ Sudha asked. She had already picked up her second coffee from the vending machine. The empty, lipstick-stained mug by her side was her first.
I opted for an Americano and followed her to the corner of the executive lounge, open only to the senior staff.
