Our conversation is cut short by a guy’s compelling, booming voice.
‘Amit, it’s Daksh. This is my first experience with Mahindra Vacations, and I must say, I am sincerely . . . what can I say . . . touched to see your concern, your effort. It’s just so heart-warming, it’s almost like you’re my best friend now,’ he mocks in his gravelly, raspy voice. ‘Having said that, we have some frail old people just moments away from fainting with low blood sugar. My own sister is very young and can’t wait for so long.’
His voice is deep, like it’s coming from inside a cave. It reverberates inside my rib cage even though he’s ten yards away from me. I stand on my toes to get a good look at him, but all I can see is his floppy hair.
‘I understand—’
‘I’m not sure you do, Amit,’ his voice now goes deeper, the rumble in it almost scary. ‘Otherwise, your initial time estimate would have been more precise. Now, we’re left with two potential scenarios. One, we have a long complimentary breakfast while you solve the room issue. Or collectively we’ll paint a tragic picture of our ordeal with Mahindra Vacations online, complete with heartbreaking images of our elder members on the floor, writhing, eyes rolling. I’m sure we can find some good actors here. I will make my own sister lie down here, face down. The choice, Amit, is yours because your name is going in every one of those reviews.’
The confused crowd mumbles in agreement.
Amit’s smile slowly disappears and a deep, scared frown settles in.
‘I . . . I . . .’ Amit stammers. ‘There’s no need to really do that.’
‘Then what are our options here?’
A nervous, sweating Amit tells that he will talk to the management and get back to us in fifteen minutes. It doesn’t take him that long.
‘The restaurant is straight ahead and then right,’ Amit informs us dryly, his voice devoid of any enthusiasm. ‘Mahindra Vacations is always working to deliver your best vacation.’
‘Of course they are,’ I hear the guy say.
Free breakfast.
Maa squeezes my arm excitedly.
‘That fellow is clever,’ whispers Maa.
‘Not clever,’ I respond. ‘Just rich. Had I paid for this vacation, I would have fought too.’
‘You just said we deserve to be here, Didi,’ taunts Gaurav. ‘You had the chance to fight, instead, you were very happily having welcome drinks.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Maybe our luck’s changing,’ says Papa brightly.
I shake my head to warn him. Papa is the only optimist among the four of us, even though he has suffered from the legendary bad luck of the Madans the most. He should know better than anyone that whenever things seem to go our way, something goes wrong. Over the years, we have learnt not to laugh a lot, or allow ourselves to be very happy. The law of averages works against us.
We follow the hotel staff to the restaurant. That’s when I see the guy for the first time. He’s in a loose black T-shirt and a pair of black shorts. His hair is carefully messy, falling over his ears. He is the colour of wet sand, his jawline is jagged and he has a high forehead. When he turns, I see he’s handsome in a way guys are when they are just turning into men. His voice belies his boyishness. He seems to be my age, but I would have guessed much older by his voice. The others in the group thank him. For everyone who’s a lot older, he dips to touch their feet; for everyone who’s only a little older, he gives them a warm smile and says something that makes them laugh. He has switched out of his terrifying, threat-wielding persona in a split second.
We enter the breakfast area. The waiter is walking us to our seats when I see him again with what seems like his family.
I first think he’s carrying a bag over his shoulder. Then, I see it’s a little girl—the sister. He’s carrying her like a sack, and she’s bobbing, giggling and squealing happily in his grip. He’s carrying her as though she weighs nothing. When he turns, I see his eyes. There’s a sense of surety in them, a sense of danger, a sense of entitlement and definitely, arrogance.
2.
Aanchal Madan
The waiter seats us right by the hotel pool, with a prime view melting into the sea. Girls and boys my age are prancing about the beach in their swimsuits. Large parts of their bodies are exposed to the sun. They splash about in the water, jostling in the sweltering sun without the fear of getting darker. Maa has never allowed me to have tea or coffee as she thinks that, with each cup, my skin will turn duller, darker, like a Glow and Lovely shade card in reverse.
The old and young are dressed alike at tables around us—beach shirts and shorts, and floral dresses.
Gaurav leans into me nervously. ‘Everyone is looking at us. We look . . . different.’
He’s right, we lookdifferent.Maa’s wearing a new saree with a heavy gold necklace. Papa’s wearing a crisp white half-sleeved shirt, trousers and office shoes. Gaurav’s wearing Papa’s old shirt, re-stitched to fit him. I’m sweating in the thick black formal outfit I bought for a family function. We are dressed for a wedding, not a beach. But these are our best clothes.
‘Who cares how we look? We are probably smarter than anyone here. You stack their answer sheets and ours, and we would beat them straight out, okay?’ I tell him, the pep talk partly for myself.
