‘This is our temple, Myra. We can’t just leave this and walk away. I know Amma would’ve wanted me to go with you, but somehow, I can’t get myself to do this. I just can’t.’
His eyes were waterlogged. He was torn between this house, our home, and his beloved daughter, whom he would now have to send off on her own. I cursed myself for putting him through this.
‘Can you manage here, Papa?’ What else could I say?
‘Andrew will be here,’ he said, rising to his feet. Had Andrew Brown been standing before me, I’d have pushed my fists through his skull.
As I watched my father leave my room, it occurred to me, I could lay down the gauntlet, tell him I was going, force him to come with me. For a few days, a week, take a chance, but that would be two unhappy people forced to live in a place that wasn’t home. Better that it was just one of us.
I could stay back, too, find a job or a new profession. The bar beckoned. A barmaid?
We spoke again the following morning. He was sure he was not moving. He gave a fair hearing to everything I had to say – the positives of moving to India’s commercial capital, maybe I could get another job in Bengaluru in ayear even – but he was firm. He didn’t stop me, but he had made up his mind.
My father’s business ideas may have all been wishy-washy, but it wasn’t the result of his heart not being in the right place.
I was raging inside. I had become a pawn in this game I was forced to play. Andrew, who had screwed me over for my best friend of a distant time of my life – even the act itself was no longer the point of contention – was living his life. If he wasn’t already executive editor, he would be that and more soon. He had a great reputation and had made good money. While I, who was just beginning to make stellar moves as a professional, had to flee not just the job that had given me a platform but also the city of my birth, like those criminals I’ve covered.
I called Chhaya to update her on the situation.
‘I’ll go with you, Bae, for a week, help you find a place. If you’re sure this is what you want to do. We can use our guest house for some.’
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to cry.
‘To make up, you can sleep on the pavement when I invite Huss over. You can wash the sheets the next morning.’
I’m loving being passed up for a man named Huss! ‘Do your own laundry at least, Chhaya Mehta.’
We giggled.
‘Wednesday breakfasts with Myra! Let’s break with tradition and do Airlines’ dosas tomorrow?’
‘Let’s binge our achy-breaky hearts away. Not yours, sorry, just mine.’
I heard her laugh. She’s manic about laughing.
Chapter 29
It was early on Saturday. The office was empty, save for the cleaning staff. The heavy scent of phenyl, frenzied physical activity and occasional chatter notwithstanding, there was a serenity about the space that is otherwise alien to a newsroom.
I couldn’t quite recall if, in all my time inMorning Herald, I had ever been in office on a Saturday morning. Maybe once. I had drifted in not fully awake, waited for the pick-up to drive me to the neighbouring district for an assignment.
Saturdays were light, the perfect time to clear my cabin. I didn’t want to run into colleagues, one of them in particular.
I hadn’t yet broached the subject of the broken keepsake mug withhewho cannot be named. I wanted to apologize. I would message him perhaps.
I had carried bits and bobs of my belongings each day when I swiped out, making the job of leaving my professional habitat easier on myself. Still, I needed two nine-by-six inch packaging boxes, which would be filled with books, papers and photo frames.
I had a month left of my notice period, but I wasn’t required to come into work. It was an in-between time, something like the midi dress of the eighties, not too short, not too long. A demure calf length that covered good legs. I couldn’t join my new workplace, but I wasn’t needed in my current job either. I could ‘chill’, some of my colleagues had told me rather enviously. Watch Netflix and do nothing. Let’s just say, I’m not a midi dress type of gal.
My farewell party was for later in the month, close to my last non-working day. I would have to come into office a couple of times before that, but those visits didn’t call for me to sashay across the editorial bays. Hereon, I would be dealing with HR only. The lines were drawn, and I would be an outsider soon. I had chosen to be, I reminded myself.
As I went about picking up the pieces that made this cabin Myra’s, I felt my heart sink.
Morning Heraldwas more than my workplace. It wasn’t my home – I had one – but it was a friend. A breathing, feeling person that had embraced me at first, giving me shade, and then schooled me. It’s not that I never had a bad day here. I had plenty, but pretty or piss-poor, it took me along from one hour to the next. There were always stories to write, work to edit, pages to make and deadlines to meet. The cycle was compelling. It calmed my nerves, healed my wounds and showed me how to carry on.
In my early years, I relied on the pace of this place – a sturdy four-storey structure with its admin, marketing, editorial and executive floors – to give a rhythm to my life. Its lights might’ve dimmed, but it never slept. There was comfort in that wakefulness. The day began slowly but hit a captivating crescendo with the advancing hours – when you wrestled and adjusted and came up with hair-raising headlines that stood on four to five words. It’s what helpedme take my father’s hand in mine and keep us going at a time when I couldn’t afford to miss a step.
Looking back, I made mighty decisions, I dealt with things well, and that’s why I was able to trudge along hand in hand with ticking time. It was definitely me more thanMorning Herald, but in this newspaper, I had an ally. I could lean on its walls. A living, breathing creature, I referenced as ‘it’. With love.
