No, not cool,I wanted to say, except that I knew that wasn’t what he was trying to convey.
Andrew Brown wasn’t big on appearances. He would never use ‘handsome’ or ‘hot’ or any such lame adjective to describe himself or anyone else. If he liked something, he served it plain; embellishing wasn’t his style. Any time I complimented his looks, he’d change the subject even before I could catch the colour that stained his cheeks. His manners were faultless, but I can’t remember ever hearing a thank you. That’s how he had been, at least.
‘Myraah,’ he repeated as he walked into my cabin, crowding it. That loose-limbed, commandeering gait was engraved in my memory.
He had used my name twice in two minutes, which was already too many times for a month maybe.
The copy I was editing was forgotten; the hole in the page was lost on a screen that was now in sleep mode.
Myra Rai on deadline.That old stubborn she?I had no time for her.
The generous light of the midday sun flooded our editorial spaces, countering the aircon that had doubtlessly been turned to some permafrost temperature.
Andrew put his hand out, and I stood up to meet him halfway. It was a firm grip, just the way I had known it. Slowly, we broke from the hold – me first, I think. I mayhave fronted a blank look, but I was breathless. I needed water. I was going quietly crazy.
Some not-so-delighted office folks had filled me in on the details of the Andrew Brown hiring. The chairman had apparently flown to New York with his flunky,Morning Herald’s marketing head, to convince Andrew. He supposedly had more than one offer from India. Andrew went with the most lucrative pitch, which was also from the only newspaper deal he had before him. There was one from a magazine; the rest were net properties. According to the rumour mill at No. 7 MG Road, he had agreed to move only for a year. He was testing the waters to see if he could make the switch to a medium that had long been outpaced in the race to grab eyeballs.
I understood whyMorning Heraldwanted him, but I had my reservations about these postulations.
An institution built on tough-as-nails journalistic principles, which was born during the country’s Independence movement, was looking to sharpen its game. A last-ditch effort to attract young readers before committing to digital space.
Andrew was a political pundit. He’d bring much-needed gravitas to the pages of any newspaper in the country. But as far as I knew, he hadn’t spent much time in fickle, under-pressure newsrooms, the pillars on which an organization’s reliability rested. It was where split-second decisions on stance, what to highlight and where to place the decibel were taken in the dying hours of each day.
I had woken up with a start this morning. Was this new colleague actuallymyAndrew Brown? No longer mine, I reminded myself. Same name, different gents? An imposter, a charlatan?
The man I knew had left home a long time ago. He had thrived, made a name, but not once in those eight years had he looked back. Andrew was a sought-after brand in media today. Why would he choose to return now when he could be anywhere he wanted to be? It didn’t add up. Just like that decision to leave law and pursue journalism.
‘So, it’s really you,’ I said, my bored smile in place. I’m better at expressions than doing my make-up. My hands shake – 28 going on 98.
‘Unfortunately, it is,’ he said, nodding before turning away. Sometimes, when he gestures, he doesn’t look at the person he’s in conversation with. Reporters do that, too, using the few seconds to take in nuances, but his is an old habit.
Unfortunately,he had said. I was not going to correct him.
His appearance was eloquent. He was taking it all in his stride – the envy-stained synthetic shirts and every pair of kajal-lined eyes that filled the bays of our newsroom.
There were more squeals than story ideas coming from the female section, and suddenly, lipstick-kissed tissues were lying all over the restroom.
‘Back in Bengaluru. Welcome home,’ I said cheerily.
He was watchful. Every twitch of my lineless face had been noted and filed away.
I was taking my time. Andrew knew me as an easy-going soul, and that was all he was going to see.
‘Thank you,’ he said, settling into the lone chair that faced me.
His arms were folded across his chest. His eyes scanned the walls of my cabin. To his right were three frames of blooms,Tabebuia roseain yellow and pink and the gulmohar. My favourites, my pictures. He knew it. On his left was an abstract painting by a friend. I could see that he wasstraining his eyes, trying to read the name of the artist. I let him. He may not have trained as a journalist, but he had learnt quickly. We sniff stories before we hear about them.
‘I didn’t think I’d be back so soon either. It was always my plan to come back home eventually.’ He spoke suddenly, his eyes roaming the length of my desk. They lingered on the back of a heart-shaped frame that faced me. Only decorum stopped him from turning it around.
I nodded. His vacillating plans were of no interest to me.Not any longer,I told myself.
‘I like the look,’ he said, pointing at my hair, moving his fingers like a pair of scissors.
I had chopped my tresses a few months ago after wearing my hair long for most of my life. My mother had loved my hair. Hers had been straight and silky; I got my father’s curls, or at least what he once had of it. I’d never had a hair opinion for as long as Mummy was around; she took care of it. In the last year or so, I had the itch to experiment. I coloured it, streaked it in shades of wine, but while it looked great, it had ruined my hair. My soft ringlets suddenly felt like straw.
‘Oh!’ I flicked aside his compliment. ‘It’s the result of an experiment gone wrong.’
‘Short hair suits you. Not everyone can pull it off.’ His dark eyes sweetened like chocolate. I tasted the compliment. I wanted to do a shampoo ad then and there, but I shrugged instead. It was awkward, in step with the erratic beat of my heart. I hated how my body was betraying me in his presence.
