Chapter 1
The fading rays of the afternoon sun filtered through the gently billowing curtain and gilded the still figures in the room, one on a brightly patterned rug and two on a monochrome sofa. The one on the rug, a young woman, wiped her eyes and reached out a trembling hand to her wineglass. The man and the woman on the sofa looked at each other and shook their heads in bemusement.
“Thanks,” Pihu said, getting up from the floor and stretching her stiff legs. “I really needed that.”
“I told him,” said her friend, Rhea. “I told him Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi was the best way to get you here. He didn’t believe that you’d seen the film seventeen times.”
“I still don’t believe you!” Her husband, Ajay, said. “Nobody can laugh the way Pihu was laughing if they’d seen the film so many times.”
“You’re right not to believe everything your dear wife says,” Pihu said. “She’s seen it seventeen times.” As Ajay’s mouth dropped open, Pihu added, “I’ve probably watched it twenty times.”
Both friends roared with laughter at the look on Ajay’s face. “You’re both crazy! I’m leaving before you start trading dialogues.” When he’d just started going out with Rhea, the two girls had persuaded Ajay to sit through their ‘dialogueathon’, and he had no desire to repeat the experience. There were limits to what one would do for true love.
“Do you need anything from the market?” He asked Rhea instead.
Rhea followed him out of the room, talking about her shopping list. Pihu sat back down, looking around her appreciatively at the cozy living room. Just the right amount of furniture, warm colors, a room that looked lived-in and homely, even though Ajay and Rhea had been here for hardly any time.
She was glad she had come today. She hadn’t wanted to disturb the newlyweds on the first weekend after their honeymoon, but Rhea had insisted. And Pihu had given in, partly because she had wanted to see her closest friend—her only real friend?—after two months of absence. She had also been curious to see how Mrs. Rhea Chauhan Solanki was different from Ms. Rhea Chauhan.
The lady in question came in as Pihu was still smiling at the whimsical thought. “Shall we get started on dinner?” she asked Pihu. “Arun will be here by eight.”
Arun Karnik, the only other guest invited for dinner, was Pihu’s boss and their old friend.
“So, Mrs. Rhea Chauhan Solanki, am I the first guest to grace your marital home?” Pihu asked as they worked in the kitchen.
“Less of the guest, you idiot. You didn’t come to our wedding. So, Ajay and I wanted you to be the first one to come to our home.”
“You always knew I couldn’t come to your wedding. The three of us had decided it was best that way,” Pihu replied, suddenly serious.
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.”
Pihu’s hazel eyes glowed with a soft light. “I missed it too, the biggest day of your life.” She gave Rhea’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “But I’m happy to be here, even though you’re using me shamelessly to make Arun’s favorite mixed veg curry.”
Rhea laughed. “Serves you right. You’re the only one his wife trusted with the recipe.” She gave Pihu a long look. After several moments of silence, she asked, “How is Arun now?”
Arun had lost his wife, Manjari, in a road accident six months ago. She had been traveling from Mumbai to Mahabaleshwar to visit her parents. A landslide on the way had crushed the bus, killing most of the passengers and destroying Arun’s life. At the time, Rhea had been too busy between work and Ajay in Delhi and wedding preparations in her hometown, Alwar, but Pihu had tried her best to be there for Arun.
“How would he be?” She shrugged. “After her last rites, he took bereavement leave and went home. I guess that was the worst time. He’s been back only for the last month or so. At work at least, he’s nearly his usual self. The shadows are still there, but not as dark as before. You’ll see when he comes.”
“And how are you?”
Pihu shrugged again. “Much the same. It was gruesome at the magazine without Arun. And now that he’s back, we’re up to our necks with work on the Anniversary Issue. I’m pretty excited about that. Oh, and remember that music school in Chittaranjan Park? They’ve begun Hindustani vocal music classes for adults, age no bar. I’m thinking of enrolling if they’ll have me. Who knows, you may be looking at the next Indian Idol!”
“And?” Rhea asked drily, ignoring the flippant remark.
Pihu blinked, not sure what Rhea was getting at. “And that’s it.”
Rhea rolled her eyes at her friend. “Come on, Pihu. You’re twenty-six years old, intelligent, successful, attractive. Why is there no hint of Pihu, the woman, wanting any of the things that most women our age want for themselves?”
“Come on, Rhea,” Pihu mimicked right back, “I have what I want—a house, a job I love, enough money for my needs and odd whims. When I want more, I’ll work damn hard to get it. And when I need a friend, I have you.”
“Is that all you want?” The raised eyebrows conveyed deep disbelief.
Pihu sighed. “Are we on the track where my soaked-in-marital-bliss friend will try to convince me that I should want that state for myself too?”
“You know me so well,” Rhea grinned.
“And you know what I’m going to say to that.” Rhea tried to interrupt, but Pihu went on. “Listen, you were lucky to find Ajay. You have love, you’re great friends, you respect each other’s differences. Even your disagreements are so… loving. Your family accepts him, and his family accepts you wholeheartedly. But don’t you see, to expect me to find all of that—love, respect, understanding, and above all, acceptance—it’s beyond unrealistic, it’s downright stupid!”
“Whatever you might say, Pihu, you deserve to find all of that.”
“Deserve?” A shadow flitted over Pihu’s face, darkening the hazel light in her eyes. “Do you really think it’s that simple?” Pihu shook her head, “You’re asking me to go looking for heartbreak. Don’t you know by now that it’s always lying in wait for me somewhere or the other?”
“You’re giving up even without trying,” Rhea huffed. “You have to take a chance sooner or later.”
“Right. You should go with sooner. For the lettuce, that is. You’re strangling the life out of it.”
Rhea yelped and Pihu took the opportunity to switch the blender on and grind the spices for the curry. With any luck, the topic would be drowned in the noise, and hopefully, Ajay would be back soon.
Ajay returned when dinner preparations were in full swing. He shooed Rhea and Pihu out of the kitchen to go freshen up, announcing that he’d make the chicken, tandoori style.
He had things under control when Pihu returned after a quick shower and change of clothes, ditching her ubiquitous skirt and top for a floral dress in pale yellow. November was supposed to get cooler in Delhi, but it was still warm enough for summer wear. And the chilled soft drink can Ajay had brought out for her was more than welcome.
He took a generous swig of his beer as they laid the table. “Tell me more about Mr. Karnik,” he asked her.
“Arun,” she corrected automatically. “If you call him ‘Mr. Karnik’, he’ll tell you he’s not his father.”
Ajay grinned. “What’s he like?”
“He’s…” Pihu thought a while. How to explain the complex character who was her friend, mentor, career counselor, life guide and boss? “Well, he’s Arun,” she finally said, her hands busy with cutlery and glasses. She grinned suddenly. “You know how they used to tell it on Doordarshan? Umr 36 saal, rang saanvla, qad 5 foot, 10 inch, chehra lamba, aankhen…bluish grey…”
Ajay laughed. “But I’m not looking for a missing person.”
She laughed too, and then sobered suddenly. “The real Arun has been missing since Manjari. I hope we find him soon.”
“I hope we find him tonight,” Ajay said fervently. “I won’t know how to handle him otherwise.”
“Don’t worry, he’s easy to get along with. He’s charming when he wants to be, well read, loves to talk about anything under the sun. He and Rhea can talk about the advertising business for hours; he even took Rhea’s inputs on an ad campaign for Indiascape. So, you’ll have a lot in common.” She sipped her cold drink and went on, “He’s a dedicated perfectionist at work, wants things just so, and he can shred you with a mere look if you don’t meet his high standards. But he’s also patient with newcomers, and he gives you enough chances to earn his respect. He’s the best Executive Editor for Indiascape, and he’s the best mentor I could have had.”
“Does he come with a pedestal?” Ajay said drily. “Or do you carry it for him?”
“What… Yes, I’ve been warned several times about my severe hero-worshipitis,” she smiled. “But I do know he’s human. He can be a pain to work for when we are on tight deadlines. And when he’s displeased about something, he’ll tell you in excruciating detail until you want the floor to swallow you up.” She eyed Ajay’s rapidly depleting beer bottle. “He loves beer, by the way. Manjari kept trying to tell him he’ll have a beer belly before he turns forty, and she was right; he does.”
“Do you think I should offer my condolences about Manjari?” Ajay asked anxiously.
Pihu thought about Arun’s face on the day of the last rites—shuttered, all emotion carefully hidden away, eyes hard like pewter. “I think it would make him uncomfortable,” Pihu replied. “It’s better to just let him be and give him time.”
But when Arun arrived, Rhea gave him a big hug and gushed, “I was so upset to hear about Manjari. I still can’t believe the bloody unfairness of it all. Why her, of all people, and why you?”
Arun shrugged and hugged her back. For a few minutes, it seemed like he was comforting her, and not the other way around. As soon as he could, he turned his attention to Ajay, asking to be shown the house and discussing the myriad concerns of renting versus owning a place.
“It’s a nice house,” he told Rhea over dinner. “You were fortunate to find something so good in Saket in your budget. But why didn’t you look for a place in Gurgaon? Your ad agency is there; it would save you both a whole lot of travel.”
Ajay piped in, “That’s what I said. Commuting in this never-ending traffic twice every day—it’s insanity.”
“But I want to stay in Delhi, in South Delhi.” She turned to Pihu. “If we move to Gurgaon, I’ll be so far away from you. And you know I’ll worry.”
Pihu blinked. She hadn’t known she was such a key player in Rhea and Ajay’s decision about where to set up their home. “I’ll be fine,” she said automatically. “You don’t need to worry, Rhea. I can take care of myself.”
Rhea hadn’t heard a word of what she’d said or had chosen to ignore it. “You won’t consider selling the Alaknanda house and moving to Gurgaon, will you?” she asked hopefully.
“No!” Pihu didn’t have to think about it. “I’m not selling my home. It has too many memories.” And before Rhea could say anything, she went on, “But you guys should look in Gurgaon, even a place to buy maybe. You both have stable jobs and good prospects; your families will pitch in, and getting a loan won’t be so difficult.”
The discussion shifted to home loans and potential houses and locations, and from there on to a free flow of conversation that often occurs when an affinity of interests coincides with open minds and friendly temperaments.
“Want a lift home?” Arun asked Pihu when the evening finally winded down and he was saying his goodbyes.
She shook her head. “I’ll be here for a while. I’ll help Rhea clear up. Her mother-in-law is coming tomorrow.”
“I can do that,” Ajay said, laying an arm across Rhea’s shoulders. “You go ahead. It’ll save me a trip later to take you home.”
It had become second nature for Pihu to share everything with Rhea. They had been together since college, and Rhea had lived in Pihu’s flat for nearly five years. They had shopped together, cooked together, shared the boring chores of daily living, laughed the evenings away watching old comedies, taken trips together. But Rhea had much more than a deep friendship and carefree camaraderie now. She had a partner, her own home, a new life.
Pihu got her things together, hugged Ajay and Rhea goodbye, and followed Arun to his car.
“He’s a nice guy,” Arun broke the melancholy that had descended on her. They were on their way, she realized with a surprise. The roads weren’t deserted yet—in Delhi on a Saturday night, they weren’t likely to be—but they weren’t jam-packed either.
“Yes. Yes, he is,” she shook herself out of her reverie. “I should know,” she said with a smile in her voice. “Rhea spent months talking about him, going on and on about whether he was right for her, whether getting married was the right decision.”
“Ajay was telling me he was very thankful to have your blessings. He said if you had considered him unworthy of your friend, Rhea would have definitely rejected his proposal.”
“Too right,” Pihu laughed. “I know her well and I care about her. It feels like we’ve always taken care of each other.”
“In Rhea’s case, it’s not so much taking care as mothering you,” Arun said drily. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Pihu raised her eyes upwards. “Who wouldn’t notice? I’m surprised Ajay and you sat through all the inane questions she was asking me—am I eating on time, have I shopped for groceries, is the maid coming on time, what am I doing besides work, which movie I watched last… Honestly, I don’t know what came over her. We spent a perfectly normal, fun day watching Chal…”
“Not that movie,” Arun groaned. “What are you trying to do, set a Guinness world record?”
She grinned at the look on his face. “Speaking of Guinness records, Arun, who is Sameera?”
He threw her an utterly baffled glance before turning his attention back to the road. “How the heck should I know?”
“You should know. She’s the one trying to set a record for the number of calls made to a person in a day, namely you. She was calling at least every half an hour yesterday, kept asking for your mobile number since you weren’t in office. I figured that if you hadn’t given it to her, then maybe I shouldn’t either.” She glanced at him, but he looked as confused as ever. “So, who is she?”
Arun frowned. “I can’t remember any Sameera. Didn’t she say what she wanted?”
“Apart from saying it was personal, you mean? No, she didn’t. Oh, she did mention she met you at a party last week.”
Arun thought some more, going over the social events of the past week. His brow cleared as he remembered. “Got it! She works in Marcom for one of these corporates. We went out for a nightcap later, but when a guy doesn’t exchange numbers with you at the end of the evening, what does that tell you?”
“Forget it. He’s not interested.”
“Precisely.” A teasing light entered the dark eyes that glanced at her. “Happens a lot in your generation, doesn’t it? Swipe left, swipe right, maybe I can find someone better than this one.”
Pihu didn’t know whether to laugh or feel outraged. “My generation?” She finally said, eyes bright with suppressed amusement. “I don’t know what’s worse, Arun. Your sounding like a granddaddy in that ’aajkal ke bachche’ and ’hamaare zamaane mein’ tone, or the fact that you are the one who just did to Sameera what you’re accusing ‘my generation’ of doing.”
“I should never have asked her out,” he said in a flat, hard voice. “I was looking for Manjari in her all evening.” However, before she could get a word in, he deftly switched tracks, “How about you then? Met anyone interesting at Rhea’s wedding?”
Pihu stared at him. “I thought you knew; I didn’t go.”
Arun shook his head. “Wasn’t that cowardly overthinking? Who would have bothered with your caste among hundreds of guests, all busy guzzling free food and drink?”
Pihu shuddered. “Not a chance I wanted to take. Not on Rhea’s big day.”
“Loyalty, and love for your friend, taken to the extreme,” he sighed. “You’re such a different being, Pihu. I don’t see even half of this depth of feeling when I talk to these youngsters in office. Fun and good times and here and now but nothing serious seem to be all they care about.”
“Is it? Good thing I’m not into those games then.”
Arun shot her a quick, quizzical look.
She sighed. “It’s a choice. I don’t want to go down that road, okay?”
Arun looked as if he might have said more, but in the end, he merely shrugged and brought the car to a halt outside the gate to her block of flats. “Now, here’s a road that is for you. I’ll wait here. Give me a missed call when you’re in your flat.”
She thanked him and said goodnight.
“Pihu,” She turned to him, one hand on the car door. “Forget about what I think of today’s youngsters. Manjari often told me that we’d been lucky. Otherwise, you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.”
“Yuck!” Pihu shuddered dramatically. “Now I’ll have nightmares of slimy frogs.”
She exited the car on Arun’s laughter. It was good to see him laugh again, she thought. For that, and for the thoroughly enjoyable day with her overprotective friend and her ‘nice guy’ husband, this weekend had been well spent.
When Pihu entered the office on Monday after a wonderfully lazy Sunday, she knew she was in for a busy fortnight. As she had told Rhea, they were working on the Anniversary Issue of Indiascape, the magazine that had been Pihu’s second home for the past five years. The workload for the special issue was nearly double the usual, for Arun had decreed that they would not only provide a glimpse through the years of how the magazine had grown, but they would also take a comprehensive view of the progress made on the sociocultural issues that were the magazine’s core coverage area. That was a tall order for the lean editorial team, and Pihu was already planning which freelance correspondents they could use and how they could get another resource on the edit desk when the features started pouring in.
She entered the sixth-floor office with excitement in her step and ideas buzzing in her head. Her magazine, her baby, five years old in a couple of weeks. From day one, she had been part of the challenging journey to launch Indiascape and take it to the heights it had attained. In a scenario of falling magazine readership, Indiascape was still strong, both in print and on the Web. And while the team had fought together to grow from strength to strength, she had seen Arun do a lion’s share of the work, negotiating with the Indiascape Group management on the magazine’s behalf, working tirelessly with the marketing team to promote the magazine, and providing editorial direction. She was glad that he was back to lead the Anniversary Issue too, though he had been hinting about delegating more work to her, prepare her for “the next level,” he’d said.
They began with the weekly editorial meeting, taking stock of the features that had been allocated and their deadlines, and the ones that were still to be allocated.
“I’ll take two of these,” Pihu volunteered. “I’ll have time to work on them this week until our correspondents begin sending their features.”
Arun nodded his approval. “Julie,” he addressed her coworker. “You take up one feature too, this one on the Atrocities Act and its implementation should interest you. Pihu, as the more experienced writer, I’ll expect you to help Julie if she gets stuck. Talk to the experts, get enough data and cross-check each fact. No exaggerations, no prejudices, no making claims we can’t validate.”
They discussed getting in extra help for the remaining features and studied the deadlines once more. “Are we being foolishly over-ambitious?” Arun asked Pihu and Julie. “We want to do a lot in the next two weeks if we are to produce a cracker of an issue. Do you both think we should scale it down?”
“Is there anything called over-ambitious?” Pihu asked him. “We’ll need to slog our backsides off, but we’ll make it an issue to remember.”
“If we get the extra help we need, we can do it,” Julie seconded her.
“Great,” Arun said. “Back to your grindstones then.”
That was all Pihu remembered of the following fortnight. Her spreadsheet of features and deadlines and press schedules became her reason for living. If she wasn’t on the computer, she was on the phone, coordinating photoshoots or checking on the status of features. If she was not on her seat, she was in the design section, getting pages laid out or proofreading the features ready to go to press.
Delays in tight deadlines were inevitable, and the edit desk worked extra hard to pull the schedule back on track. A sub-editor from the Indiascape website team pitched in, but they still worked all seven days both weeks. They must have taken breaks to eat and sleep, but Pihu had no recollection of it. She vaguely remembered the cups of coffee that forever littered their cubicle. She knew she had helped Julie with her feature. The one bright spot Pihu remembered was Arun popping into their cubicle at close to midnight and shaking her hand for the “brilliant story on female infanticide.” She had glowed with pleasure, for the story was close to her heart and she had given it her everything. She had dug deep, researched long and hard, looked at both rural and urban mindsets on the preference for male children, and explored whether and why female infanticide was still rampant, given all the right noises being made in the right quarters.
One Wednesday night, it was all done. They sent the last pages for printing, got the press to confirm that everything had been received per schedule, and for the first time in 17 days, shut down their computers at the decent hour of 10 PM. Pihu slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes, too exhausted to lift a finger. She would soon need to move, she knew, for Arun had gone to his cubicle to order a “surprise dinner” for his “priceless team.” She needed to check on the office cab too, ensure that one would be available to take her home after dinner. But it felt good to just lie back, enjoy that feeling of blankness, savoring the lightness that came after an issue was packed and sent to press.
Light fingers walked up her bare arm, lingering, reveling in the contact. Pihu shivered. Was she dreaming? Rubbing her arm, she opened her eyes.
He was towering over her, arms folded, a feral, hungry look in his eyes. Pihu shivered again, because something about him made her skin crawl.
“Mohit! What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying the view,” said their marketing manager with a smirk. “I haven’t seen you around lately.”
She pushed her chair back and stood up.
“Is there a problem with the issue?” She asked in her coolest, most professional voice.
“No, that’s not where the problem is.” His eyes roamed over her slowly, pausing now and then, finally stopping at her wide mouth.
“Why don’t you come to my office these days?” he asked huskily. “You used to have lots to discuss with me on Indiascape’s marketing.”
Her mouth twisted. She had wanted to put some ideas to him when he’d joined a few months ago, but he had brushed her off, implying in as many words that someone like her had no business teaching the marketing manager his job. “I’ve been busy with the issue. And Arun said he’d work with you,” she replied.
The smirk intensified until his eyes were bitter with mockery. “Ah, yes, the esteemed Arun! You know him very well, don’t you?”
Pihu’s brow creased. What was he getting at? Either she was too tired to make sense of what was going on, or this whole scenario was crazy.
“It’s done.” Arun’s voice had never been more welcome as he walked from his office to their cubicle. “Dinner’s here. Let’s go to the pantry. Where’s Julie?” He noticed Mohit as he entered the cubicle and added, “Mohit! Come and join us. Is any of your team around? Call them in too. Everyone has worked really hard on this issue.”
Affable became Mohit Sharma’s middle name as he spoke to Arun, sparing barely a glance for Pihu, and then went to call a few of his team members who were still in office.
It was past midnight when Pihu tumbled gratefully into her bed, mentally blessing Arun for giving them the day off on Thursday. All she wanted was to close her eyes, and for once, forget that the clock existed to dictate her life.
Arun had called for a special editorial meeting on Friday morning. Julie and Pihu entered his office on time and took their chairs. They had brought in coffee from the vending machine, and once pleasantries had been exchanged and the coffee had been drunk, Arun began the meeting.
The agenda was the magazine’s editorial direction in the next year. “We’re already in November, and we’ll end the year with a solid Anniversary Issue. Starting with our two January issues, however, I want to do Indiascape 2.0, if you will. Refurbish the content, cover new areas, redesign some aspects if we get the budget. Ideas?”
Pihu and Julie looked back blankly. They were still a little shell-shocked from the hectic fortnight, and try as they might, they could think of nothing that would fit Arun’s brief. The few hesitant ideas they put forward were shot down as “more of the same.”
“Do you really live your lives from issue to issue? Think about the long term, where we want to take this magazine, the directions we want to explore. Look at the whole damn forest. Stop focusing on the trees,” Arun admonished.
Pihu and Julie looked at each other helplessly. The silence lengthened. And then, Pihu’s phone rang.
Arun’s rapier-sharp glance could slice her poor phone into pieces, Pihu thought, fumbling to disconnect the call.
“Didn’t I specify this was a meeting?” Arun’s glance cut into her. “Did your phone invite itself to join us?”
“Sorry,” she mumbled. The phone rang again.
Arun muttered something that Pihu couldn’t catch, as she tried to put her phone in silent mode.
“It’s obviously more important than this meeting,” Arun said. “We’re wasting time anyway. Both of you are about as productive as a drought-hit field today.”
Pihu flushed, not daring to meet his eyes.
“Pihu,” he said in a tone that compelled her to look at him. “Send an email to all our correspondents and the Indiascape website team. Tell them what I’ve told you and ask them to send their ideas—one idea per person is mandatory—by Wednesday. And you two, I want you to really think about what’s next for Indiascape. We’ll meet next week.”
Julie headed out of the room and Pihu followed her, the phone vibrating in her hand. “After you attend to that all-important call, Pihu,” Arun drawled, “maybe you’ll find time to check the Final Edit folder. You’d sent me a feature to look at; I’ve looked at it.”
His tone spelled disaster for the feature, or he was still angry with her for those blasted phone calls. Who could be calling her at this time anyway? If it was one of those pesky telemarketing numbers, she’d blow their brains out.
She had reached her desk and opened the feature when the phone rang again. She looked at the screen long enough to register it was Rhea.
“Why aren’t you taking my calls?” Her friend began as soon as the phone was picked up. “I have a bloody big crisis on my hands.”
“You’re not the only one,” Pihu said drily. “Arun just became his sweet, charming self when your calls disrupted his special meeting. And you should see the words of praise he’s showered on this feature from our new correspondent. The first comment in the file is, “Pihu, did you do a quality check on this? Don’t say ‘yes’. I might fire you.”
“I’m so sorry. But it’s really urgent, Pihu. When will you reach home?”
“Home? I’ve just about reached office! Rhea, what’s the problem?”
Rhea told her. Pihu listened, her eyes skimming Arun’s comments, her fingers drumming against the table as she thought through her options. “Look,” she finally said, “After what just happened, I don’t dare to ask Arun if I can leave early. You still have a key to the flat. Why don’t you go there? I’ll come as soon as I can.”
“Have you seen the feature?” She started as Arun spoke from behind.
“I was just going through your comments,” she said.
Pihu’s heart sank as he asked her to follow him back into his room. She knew what was coming; he just didn’t want to say it in Julie’s hearing.
“You don’t need to see my comments to know this story is rubbish, Pihu,” he said, once she was seated. “It doesn’t have a single statistic to support the facts he’s quoting about the decline in violence against SCs and STs. It’s a collection of random quotes and some connecting text. School essays are better argued than this. I would have expected you to point out the glaring holes and tell him to do the whole thing again. You better have a damn good explanation for why you sent this to me instead.”
Pihu cleared her throat. “I need your support on this,” she said. “Your word will carry more weight when you ask him to redo it.”
Arun frowned but waited patiently for her to go on.
“I did send it back,” she said quietly, “for the same reasons that you pointed out.” He called me and said, “Madam, aap fix kar do na, you have been educated thanks to a reservation quota, haven’t you? And these are your people, after all.”
Arun swore under his breath. “How could you let him get away with it? It’s insubordination. It’s against our Code of Conduct.”
Violent pain flamed in her hazel eyes. “What could I say?” Her mouth twisted cynically. “I made all the right corporate noises. I told him he’d get in trouble if he talked like that, but he merely laughed. You know that typical superior male ‘what-the-hell-can-you-do-to-me’ laugh.” She closed her eyes as a dark fog began gathering within. “I meant to tell you,” she said, her voice barely audible, “ask you what to do, but we were so busy last week.”
He touched her shoulder briefly. “I’ll handle this.” She knew he meant more than the feature.
She was at the door when he called her, and she halted. “You can leave early today.” He smiled as she whirled around in surprise. “Rhea seems to need you urgently.”
It was nearing 6 PM when Pihu reached home. She had left office at 4 o’clock, but traffic from Connaught Place to Alaknanda had confounded her at every step. There was no off-peak hour left in Delhi, she thought tiredly. Despite the Metro, it just kept increasing every day—the deafening noise, the heat, the random jams, the nauseating fumes making travel in the city feel nothing short of winning a war every day.
Wiping her brow, she climbed the steps to her flat. She had some idea of what awaited her. Rhea would be there along with her “brand new problem, imported from Jaipur,” she had said. But when she unlocked the door and nearly fell over a succession of suitcases starting from the front door and spanning the width of the entrance hall, she realized the problem was much bigger than she had anticipated.
Her flat, on the second floor of a 40-year-old apartment complex, was spacious, not like the newer stamp-sized constructions mushrooming all over Delhi. It had a big entrance hall, part of which she had converted to a dining area, along with a living room, a decent-sized kitchen and two en suite bedrooms. But looking around now, her home seemed to have shrunk to the size of a train compartment, for unending paraphernalia was spread over every available inch.
On the other end of the sea of luggage, in the doorway to the living room, stood Rhea with a girl who looked about 20 years old. She was of medium height, like Rhea, but unlike Rhea’s stylish, functional, pixie-cut hair, this girl had shoulder-length hair, currently in wild disarray. She had a small face with a set jaw and a stubborn chin, huge, dark eyes that were red and swollen, a pert nose that was pink and a true rosebud mouth. She was wearing a printed top with a long red skirt, both crumpled and creased as if they’d been pulled out from the back of an overflowing closet. Pihu shook her head. This was Rhea’s cousin? The girl who had left her home because she wanted to make a life of her own? She didn’t look like she could dress herself on her own. And next to Rhea, who was in her professional garb of neat shirt and tailored trousers, literally not a hair out of place, this girl looked like she’d been dragged out of bed and dropped here.
“Pihu, meet Tanya,” Rhea wended her way through the suitcases to reach her friend. “My cousin from Jaipur.”
Tanya smiled at Pihu, who blinked at the sudden radiance that lit the younger girl’s face. An innocent smile, a smile that trusted, a smile that believed that everything would turn out just fine. Pihu smiled back.
“You’re okay with this, right?” Tanya jumped to the crux of the business that had brought her here. “Rhea said I could share this flat with you, use her old bedroom.”
Pihu looked at Rhea helplessly. She couldn’t refuse her friend, but Tanya wasn’t Rhea; something told Pihu that living with her would be a totally different proposition.
Tanya continued in Hindi. “I would have stayed with Rhea, but her mother-in-law is using their only other bedroom. And she’ll be here for months. They don’t even know when she plans to leave. I don’t know anyone else in Delhi. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t let me stay with you.” Tanya’s lips trembled and tears were gathering in her eyes.
“Look, don’t cry,” Pihu said, feeling even more helpless than before. “Rhea, why don’t you make us some chai? We’ll help you move in after that.”
“There’s still some stuff lying in my car,” Rhea said, ignoring the horrified surprise on Pihu’s face. “We’ll get it upstairs later.”
*****
“Pihu, could you help here? This stuff is heavy,” said Tanya plaintively, struggling to move another suitcase to the bedroom.
A person can live on so little and so much, Pihu thought, hauling the suitcase to the bedroom where Rhea was rapidly unpacking another bag. She rolled her eyes at Rhea and received an understanding grin. The hauling continued, peppered with Tanya’s comments on how her stuff wouldn’t fit into the two cupboards in the bedroom that had been Rhea’s.
Finally, they sank down on the sofa in the living room, too exhausted to do anything else.
Pihu took another look at her new housemate. A cute girl, and a somewhat pampered one? Through the evening, Tanya had shifted the lighter bags, sweetly smiling at Rhea and Pihu as they tackled the heavier ones. And, Pihu thought with amusement, she had subtly directed the older two girls into doing most of her unpacking too. I’ll have to watch out or I’ll be waiting on the little miss, she told herself.
“Main toh thak gayi!” Tanya said, shaking her hair out into further disarray. “I’ve never done so much heavy work. My father always said girls shouldn’t lift heavy things.” She gave a bitter laugh. “That’s one more instruction I’ve disobeyed.”
“I thought your major crime was to move out against your father’s wishes,” Pihu replied, eyeing the pieces of luggage that were still in the living room.
Tanya snorted. “He thinks I can’t take care of myself. He says I don’t need to do anything when he can give me a comfortable life. Only thing, that life means I have to be a kathputli, a puppet dancing to his tune.”
“So, you sneaked out into the night without a word to him?”
“Don’t be silly! I told him Rhea had invited me to her new home in Delhi.”
“Wasn’t he surprised when you packed up his household to take along?”
Pihu’s dry tone was lost on the indignant girl. ”All this,” she swept her hand haughtily, “is mine. I didn’t get a single thing that he had got for me.”
“Looks like you’ve planned a long stay then.”
With a toss of her head, Tanya said, “Main vaapas hi nahin jaaungi! What would be the point of leaving if I went back? It’s not like he’ll welcome me with open arms.”
Walking in with a tray of chai, Rhea caught the tail end of her cousin’s rant. “You’re talking rubbish, Tanya,” she said. “You know he’ll worry. What a way to leave home too! You were in the cab with all your luggage, with only one text to Uncle to say you were coming here. You should at least call and let him know you’ve arrived.”
“No way! I’m not speaking to him ever again.”
Pihu tried to make peace. “But your father’s reaction is understandable, don’t you think? Rhea went through the same thing all those years ago when she decided to move, even from Alwar to Delhi.”
Tanya grimaced. “Yep, the men in our family think they need to guard their women. You have no idea how suffocating it is, those long lists of ‘do this’, ‘don’t do this’. I’m tired of all the emotional drama, all those dialogues of ‘I didn’t know you would disobey me when you grew up,’ ‘I’ve done so much for you, and this is how you repay me’. I tell you, my life has become a bad TV soap!”
“I can understand,” Pihu sympathized, stifling a smile. It wasn’t funny, this fight to be heard as an individual, and Tanya was chafing because nobody took her seriously.
Tanya shot her a grateful look. “And that last fight about getting me married was just too much. I’ll never forget the way Dad shouted at me, completely out of control and threatening me with all kinds of bakwaas if I defied him!”
Tanya’s frown grew darker. “And you know what was the absolute most-annoying thing? That even my own brother, my highly educated, returned from abroad, so-called open-minded brother, was as unreasonable as my dad in not letting me move out. I can’t tell you how much that hurt.”
“You know your father is overprotective of you since Chachiji passed away,” Rhea chided. “You must have thrown a childish tantrum at not having your way. If you had explained things to Dev, he would have been more reasonable. He may have even let you stay with him.”
“I don’t want to stay with him! I don’t even want to see his face! He never even bothered to come home, just lectured me on the phone, as if he had any right after all these years. I want to do something of my own, make something of my life,” Tanya’s voice rang with vehemence.
“Good for you,” Pihu said. “You’re welcome to stay here while you decide what to do.” She paused, staring at both cousins. “But do you know exactly who you are staying with?”
Tanya met her gaze coolly. “You mean your caste? Rhea told me. I don’t care.”
“What about your family? I don’t want it to be a problem for you later.”
“Who cares what they think?” Tanya tossed her head. “I’m done with them.”
Rhea said they’d better start with dinner and insisted that Pihu help her while Tanya finished unpacking.
“How serious is this situation?” Pihu asked Rhea once they were alone. “All you told me was that Tanya had argued with her Dad about coming here, which is what you did, too, eight years ago. I thought it was one of those usual ‘I-didn’t-know-my-baby-was-so-grown-up’ arguments. But this feels like I’m stepping in the firing line of a full-blown family battle.”
“I don’t know,” Rhea said apologetically. “I was just leaving for office when she was on my doorstep, no call, no warning. I didn’t dare to call Chachaji; he’ll be furious. So, I called my mother and told her to convey the message to Jaipur. She also told me about the drama this silly girl has created back home. I tried to talk to Tanya to find out more, but she just clammed up and said that she wasn’t going back, so if I didn’t have space for her, she’d look for a hotel. Can you imagine that—a young, single girl in a hotel in Delhi?”
“You were right to bring her here. But what do we do now?”
Rhea shrugged. “Let her stay, at least until she cools down. I tried calling Dev, but his mobile is unreachable. I’m not even sure if he’s in town; his work takes him to remote places sometimes. I’ll try again, see if he can drill some sense into her.”
“But she is talking a lot of sense, Rhea. Wanting freedom is never wrong.”
“You and I know that the romantic ideal of ‘be my own person’ is one thing, and the long and hard battle to get there is a totally different thing. My dear cousin has never seen that side of life,” Rhea explained. “She’s been mollycoddled since her mother died, all needs and wants of the ‘poor, motherless girl’ met without her having to lift a finger. I don’t even know if she has any useful qualifications.”
“But if she’s serious about working, she’ll learn.”
“That’s the biggest ‘if’ in the universe, Pihu. And while we find out the answer to that, are you sure you are okay putting up with her?”
Pihu spread her hands to indicate the flat. “I have space. She can stay. It may be good to have someone here again. The evenings get very quiet sometimes.”
Rhea understood the emptiness in her friend’s eyes and gave her a quick hug. But anything she would have said was lost as Tanya barged into the kitchen, claiming she was starving, so could they please hurry up dinner?
“Is this how you’ll share the flat?” Rhea chided her cousin. “You’re supposed to help, not order us about. If I hear from Pihu that you’re behaving like a spoiled little Missy, just as Dev had predicted you would….”
“My brother knows nothing about me, so he’s not qualified to predict anything,” Tanya scoffed. Her face was all grave sincerity as she turned to Pihu, “You won’t have any trouble with me, I promise. If you feel I’m not doing enough, you just have to let me know.”
As if to prove it, Tanya laid the table, while Rhea and Pihu brought in the fried rice and egg curry. A storm was brewing on Tanya’s face again. The girl’s hands were clenched around her fork as she scowled at her plate. Rhea and Pihu exchanged glances over her head.
Rhea shook her cousin gently, and the tears Tanya had been furiously blinking away spilled over. “He said … Dad said I would starve if he wasn’t there,” she sobbed. “He said I was like a buddhu bakri. He says that if he doesn’t keep me tied up, I’m sure to fall. But I’m not a stupid goat. I can take care of myself,” she wailed.
The tears flowed, anger, worry, and grief creating a turmoil that became too much for her hitherto sheltered life. “What will I do now?” she kept asking as she sobbed into Rhea’s shoulder. Pihu’s heart clenched at the sight. How could Tanya’s family be so blind? Didn’t they see, didn’t they care about what they had done to this young girl?
She stroked the girl’s hair. “You’ll know what to do, Tanya,” she said in a calm, determined voice. “You’ll show them. We’ll help you.”
“You both are all I’m counting on,” Tanya replied, drawing in a shaky breath as the tears finally receded. She excused herself to go make reparations to her face, and Rhea and Pihu exchanged rueful glances.
She was back a few minutes later, the lift of her determined chin belying the vulnerability of red-rimmed eyes. “No more tears,” she announced, a hard edge in her watery voice. “I’ll be like Arti.”
Rhea and Pihu looked baffled. “Arti, who?” Rhea asked.
“You know, Zindagi ka Safar…Ek Tapasya? The TV soap?”
Two blank faces greeted her statement. Clicking her tongue impatiently, the young girl went on, “The girl in that, Arti, she leaves her home, just like me. Her father wants her to marry his best friend’s son, but she loves someone else, a struggling actor in Mumbai. So, she comes to Mumbai, but Tarun is not there; he’s gone somewhere for shooting for a month. And she has no money. So, she finds a job as a housemaid, doing jhadoo-ponchha-bartan while she waits for him. If she can do so much tapasya, so can I.” The girl took a breath. “Even if I have to work as a cleaning lady.”
Rhea choked and coughed, and hurriedly drank some water. Pihu’s eyes were bright, but her voice was warm and soothing when she spoke. “I’m sure you can. But let’s eat first. I’m starving after all that work.”
After dinner, Tanya helped Rhea clear the table while Pihu made coffee for all of them. They moved to the living room, where Pihu had used minimal furniture and light colors to create the effect of open, airy calm. A faint breeze from the open balcony door set the wind chimes tinkling in sweet music. The fragrance of Pihu’s night-queen plants from the balcony mixed with the aroma of coffee in the dimly lit room, and Tanya relaxed visibly as she sat on the sofa with Rhea next to her.
Pihu sighed contentedly and settled on the bean bag. Taking a sip of her coffee, she looked at the other two. “So, Tanya, do you want to roam around and sightsee for a while or look for a job pronto?”
Tanya opted vehemently for the latter option.
“Brainstorming time, huh?” Pihu asked Rhea.
Rhea agreed. “Tell us what you can do and what you like to do,” she asked her cousin.
The girl described her housekeeping skills as she kept house for her father, a computer course she had done two years ago, her graduation degree through distance education. Rhea and Pihu shook their heads—office jobs for unskilled beginners had enough and more contenders. With Tanya’s zero work experience, shaky grasp of English, and preference for talking in Hindi, it would be months before they could find anything half-decent for her.
Tanya perked up as she told them about the different cooking and baking classes she had taken.
“I make very good fruit cake,” she said suddenly. “I’ve got some, let me get it.”
As she rushed to her room, Pihu looked at Rhea, a suppressed grin lighting her eyes. “Your cousin is priceless. She’s leaving her one and only home, she doesn’t plan to come back, and she packs fruit cake?”
They were still laughing when Tanya returned, but all laughter was forgotten when they tasted the cake. Tanya had not been exaggerating, not by a long shot. Pihu had been skeptical, imagining the somewhat dry, not-so-sought-after cake with candied fruit available in stores. Tanya’s version, packed with flavor, melted in the mouth. It was nothing like anything they had ever eaten before. Tanya explained the small experiments she had done with the ingredients, trying to concoct a diabetic-friendly version of the cake for her father.
Pihu’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Think, Rhea,” she asked her friend. “Who serves the best coffee this side of GK-II, supports small businesses, and prides herself on the quality of food she serves?”
Rhea caught her drift. “Café Umami! This is right up Uma’s alley.” She turned to Tanya. “Uma owns a coffee shop in Alaknanda. She contracts with local vendors to supply food in small batches. Her idea is to serve local, fresh, nutritious food. If you can meet her high standards, you have a job sitting right here.”
“Let’s talk to her tomorrow!” Tanya said. She could hardly sit, as plan after plan of cordon bleu cooking spilled out of her.
Rhea smiled at her excitement. “That’s all very well, but when do you intend to let your family know? You can’t keep them in the dark forever.”
The excitement fizzed out of the girl, her voice flat as she said, “I know they will eventually find out. But first I want to show them how wrong they were. I’m not a tasty morsel for this city to swallow; I can build my life here.”
“I think Dev should know, Tanya. He’s right here, and he has every right…” Rhea began, but was cut short.
“He has no rights, not anymore.” The finality in her voice made the other two girls stare in surprise. “Promise me you won’t tell him, or I’ll leave here and go find a hotel without telling any of you.”
She would do it too, in her current state of mind, Pihu thought. “Alright Tanya, you tell him when you think the time is right,” she said placatingly. “Meanwhile,” she lifted her cup of coffee, “Welcome to Delhi, and may you find what you are looking for here!”
The day’s first smile broke from Tanya as she clinked her cup with theirs.
