Aanchal.
Aanchal argues that Gaurav, the premier gaming prodigy, can throw a stone in a crowd and find someone who can manage the team. But then again, no one will take her accusation of me being selfish seriously after what she did to me and to us. She’s quite literally the most selfish person ever.
* * *
The office of Phoenix Rising Gaming—of which Gaurav and I are part-owners—is situated in Netaji Subash Place, on the seventh floor of Mata Rani Building. On most days, the elevator is out of order, and we’re forced to trudge up seven flights of stairs to reach our damp, windowless office. We have three people in accounts, two in post-production, not including the four team members of Phoenix Rising, and myself. We skimped on the rest of the office so we could splurge on the gaming room, the centrepiece of our office where Gaurav and his team spend up to sixteen hours a day honing their skills on top-of-the-line gaming equipment and recording live streams for the online channels. The rest of us sit at a long table facing the gaming room. It’s a cramped, no-frills office that would never win the Best Workplace Award, but it works for us. Right next to the gaming room, we have a tiny podcast studio which we rent out to podcasters. It’s a small but steady revenue source.
As I arrive at the office, Amruta Thakur is already in the podcast studio hooking up podcast microphones to her laptop. She’s in a zipped-up black Nike windcheater and black tights. Inside the windcheater, I know she’s wearing a black sports bra. She calls it her ‘uniform to tackle the day’. She owns multiple, all bought in sales. She owns nothing else except three dresses, one dangerously small for an occasional wild night, one that’s business-like and one that’s perfect for a red carpet, all in black. She insists that wearing black is the only defence against stains. As a mother of two boys, she knows about stains. Her eight-year-old twin sons, Naman and Nishant, two of the most well-behaved, sincere, obedient boys I have ever come across, now copy her, refusing to wear anything but black Nike athleisure.
I had stumbled on Amruta’s podcast six years ago when I had first moved to Mumbai with Rabbani and my depressed father.
The connect was instant.
Amruta Thakur was a twenty-one-year-old with one-year-old twin(!) boys(!) whose husband unexpectedly died of a heart attack. She was living with her parents, two bawling kids and a shattered view of the future. She had recorded her first podcast on her phone as a way to vent about life, about her husband who ate and drank too much and died too soon.
Her podcast was at once heartbreaking and funny and relatable. Her voice, a gentle balm on my frustrations of having to raise Rabbani. It was as if she was whispering in my ears, ‘It’s okay, everyone fucks up.’ ‘You forgot to pack her lunch? It’s okay! Everyone fucks up.’ ‘You shouted at your child, it’s fine, everyone fucks up, but don’t do it again.’
Then, suddenly, she stopped doing the podcast.
A year ago, when we added the podcast studio in our office to get more out of the post-production guys we had hired, Amruta was the first person I contacted despite her having not recorded a single podcast in three years. I found her teaching history as an assistant professor, and she was confused as to who I was and why I would want her to get back into podcasting.
‘No one listened to my podcast, except my kids,’ she told me when I met her in her tiny office where there was only space for her table and books. ‘They listened to it and they were like “Stop complaining about us!” So yes, there’s no chance of me doing it again.’
It took me three months to convince her to get back into podcasting. It took her three months to convince me that I should be part of the podcast too.
‘Ready?’ Amruta asks me.
I check the levels on her laptop, adjust the gain and pull the microphone towards myself.
‘Welcome back guys! I’m Daksh . . .’
‘. . . and I’m Amruta! And welcome to our podcast,Kids Raising Kids! Where two accidental parents discuss their parenting goof-ups and hope you do better!’
She reaches out for my hand. I hold hers and feel the warmth radiate through me. It’s been eight years since her husband died. When I first met her, her skin was lighter where there had once been a wedding band. Time has filled colour in it. As I caress her finger, I wonder if I should put a ring on it.
2.
Aanchal Madan
‘WHERE ARE YOU!’ Vanita screams right into the phone.
‘I’m on the airport floor, bleeding from my ear.’
‘I’m outside! Come quickly! I can’t be picking up people at my own wedding.’
‘I told you I will take a cab,’ I protest. ‘And I’m not coming out without getting alcohol. If you’re really going through with this wedding, I’m not watching it sober.’
‘Stop wasting my time and run, Aanchal! Everyone has already brought alcohol, yaar.’
‘I’m buying gin and a little vodka. Is there anyone for whisky?’
Vanita sighs heavily into the phone. ‘Bring a bit of everything,’ she concedes. ‘So, there will be a signboard saying Dubai Airport Taxi Stand . . . I am on the road next to it. Quick, quick, run faster. Bye!’
My work phone vibrates in my pocket. Despite a three-week notice for this holiday and multiple warnings, my team is escalating everything to me like little kids. Some of the hires are my fault—I recruited them straight out of management schools thinking they would be skilful. All they have is a degree. Looking at them makes me happy that I didn’t waste two years in a management college learning marketing jargon that is as useless as climate change protests in China. I record a voice note for the office messaging group.
‘YOU GUYS ARE ONE MORE MESSAGE AWAY FROM SHITTY APPRAISALS! NO. MORE. MESSAGES!’
Last week, I received a stern e-mail from HR. Apparently, I was being ‘too friendly with the juniors’, and that ‘can backfire if one of them complains’. I delete the voice note even though I don’t have to. I’m on my notice period after five amazing years at the start-up. In the last five years, DeliverFood has given me everything: fast-track success, but stress so bad I don’t remember what it’s like not to have a headache; bosses who have grabbed my ass at off-sites but other bosses who have picked up my slack and taught me everything I know; some friends, some assholes, experience, a rich CV, hair fall and a ton of savings. In the spirit of gratitude, I instead send the team a mail. Because I need one last favour from DeliverFood: a glowing letter of recommendation.
