All that my father knew about Ravi’s presence in my life was that of a good Samaritan, who was now my close friend. Blame that on the way we communicate with each other.
A little after he had questioned me about Andrew, he hesitantly enquired if I had a boyfriend, after which he broached the subject of marriage.
I mentioned Ravi then. It was a vague reference, something to the tune of, ‘I think he likes me, but I don’t know.’ It was an awkward conversation, and we were bothglad it was over in less time than it took to make a cup of instant whatever.
I took a sip of the Coke and told my father aboutMorning Herald’s most high-profile hiring ever. I spoke for three minutes, giving him the details of Andrew Brown’s entry into No. 7 MG Road. His face was glowing with what I thought was pride. But it was hope, a ray of light.
My father was on his feet. He went to the fridge and brought out another can of soda, half of which he poured into the glass I was drinking from.
‘I knew it!’ he said. ‘I knew something was happening. You are dressing differently; your lipstick is darker.’
‘Poppy! My lipstick is old.’
He was shaking his head. He was right.
‘I’m so happy,’ he said when he finally found his voice, raising the can, ‘that he has returned. This is where he should be – by your side.’
Welcome back to the eighties. It floats around our home – sentences, songs, sentiments. The segue to Whitney Houston’s ‘Saving All My Love for You’.
Then he laughed, a whole-hearted sound that resonated through the late-evening air. It was ages since I had heard my father laugh.
My glass was on the table. I refused to respond. This was not a time for kindness.
‘No, no, Papa,’ I said. I couldn’t let him think we were a couple or were ever going to be a couple. ‘He’s going to be the editor ofMorning Heraldshortly, my boss. But yes, I guess we’ll always be friends.’
‘Yes,’ he said, still smiling and wiping a stray tear, ‘that’s one part of the story. The professional side.’
‘There is only the professional side, Papa.’
Shocked was a scarce summation of my father’s reaction. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was half-open. Understandable, coming as it did from a man who had known love and embraced it. My father was sensitive enough to recognize that he couldn’t let the expression play for much longer and so compromised with a quick nod.
He wouldn’t allow himself the question of ‘what about all those days and months’, but it was plastered across his face.
‘Andrew is going on Hari Rao’s campaign trail on Monday and Tuesday.’ My father was still recovering from the body blow. ‘He asked me to go with him. I’m planning to go.’
The smile returned to his face quicker than it had disappeared. He was shuffling in his seat, and I heard the controlled strains of the laughter that had sung in my ears only minutes ago. ‘Is he married?’ he asked, as if he were checking my temperature.
‘No, Papa, he isn’t.’
He clamped his lips. He was trying to keep the laughter down, but he couldn’t help himself. He took a swig in a bid to hide the delight. ‘Of course, you will go with him. He will be there to take care of you,’ he said, his eyes on a photograph of Mummy on the mantlepiece.
‘Daddy!’
‘I know you don’t need him to take care of you and that you are a big girl, but it is always nice to have someone around. Someone to talk to,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You’ll be going to rural areas, and these places are not always safe for women to be on their own.’
I was shaking my head when I realized I hadn’t told Ravi about going on Hari Rao’s campaign trail with Andrew. He had surprised me with the offer. Andrew had come aroundto my desk and asked if I would go with him just as I was winding up for the day.
‘Mr Kumar mentioned that you might be interested,’ he’d said.
I had told my editor well before we hired Andrew Brown that I would be interested in writing a colour piece on the canvassing leading elections. I was happy to go with any of the beat reporters, feel the pulse and note the nuances.
I think I nodded. My mouth was dry, and I was out of words.
He would drive, and a photographer might or might not join us for part of the journey. We were going to Malavalli, Maddur, Mandya and then on to Mysuru, which was Hari Rao’s constituency, from where he last contested and won more than a decade ago. He wasn’t sure if we would be returning to Bengaluru for the night and asked me to carry an extra set of clothes and toiletries in case we decided to stay back.
My heart was in a race with Usain Bolt. An overnight road trip, with Andrew driving.
‘Are you up for it?’ he asked. He was leaning against my desk.
