The Masala Box #2
I blinked hard, forcing my attention back to the presentation.
Not thinking about that. We were not thinking about that.
‘… Diwali begins a tradition worth inheriting.’ The man turned to Jai, half-hopeful, half-uncertain.
‘We’ve seen iterations of this before,’ Jai said, and the man’s face fell. ‘It leans heavily on nostalgia and doesn’t offer anything new from a narrative or branding perspective.’
That’s harsh. But based on my three years of marketing experience (though I’d never sat in an important meeting like this one), I couldn’t disagree.
The man nodded stiffly and sat down.
‘We can rework the angle,’ Jyoti, the senior strategist, said. ‘Focus more on reinvention than legacy alone. Give it some more punch.’
It would still lack that X-factor. This was House of Advani Couture, designed by none other than Suraina Mukherjee. It deserved grandeur, elegance and poetry.
‘Maybe we need a fresh idea altogether,’ Suraina ma’am said. ‘This season’s line is some of my best work. I want the campaign to reflect that.’
Really? I needed to see it.
‘We need to finalise an idea today.’ Jai’s tone left no space for any negotiation. ‘We’re already working on a tight timeline. Any more delay will compress post-production, and I’m not losing our campaign window.’ He looked around the table.
‘We could build it around craftsmanship,’ someone suggested. ‘Introduce the artisans, behind-the-scenes footage, a “karigar to customer” kind of idea?’
Jai remained silent, fingers tapping the desk.
Over the next half hour, ideas kept coming, but Jai barely reacted. Eventually, the energy waned. A mix of frustration and disappointment thickened the air.
‘These things take time, Bhai,’ Ayaan said lightly. ‘Unless someone has a genius idea hiding under this table.’
That drew out a few half-smiles, elevating some of the pressure.
‘I’m not asking for a detailed plan. But we need a strong direction to build on before we wrap this meeting,’ Jai said evenly, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath.
Mannequins in a semi-circle. Spotlight on the outfits. Works of art. Meera Kumar’s studio flashed in my brain.
An idea took root, but I grew hesitant.
Jai’s face was unreadable, but tension radiated off him. He wouldn’t want me to give my two cents, as usual. And this open-table offer for ideas wasn’t meant for me.
What if he berates me in front of everyone?
My gaze slid to Suraina ma’am. She looked exhausted, a hand massaging her temple.
If he did it in front of her, I’d never recover.
But what if he didn’t? What if they liked it? I’d impress Suraina Mukherjee! And rescue everyone from this purgatory.
‘Does no one have a good idea?’ Jai asked.
Fuck it.
‘House of Advani Couture is a work of art,’ I said hesitantly. ‘And the campaign should be exactly that.’
Jai’s eyes snapped to mine. For a second, I thought he was going to shut me down as he had in front of Meera Kumar. Like he always did. But he didn’t speak. Just watched me, waiting.
I pressed on. ‘An installation in a palace or a gallery. A room dedicated to one day of Diwali, and each piece presented as if it were a part of the archive. Like we’re showcasing our future legacy.
’ I paused, unsure if I was rambling, but no one stopped me.
‘The space can reflect the theme – saffron and rose tones for Dhanteras. Terracotta elements and rustic textures for Govardhan Puja.’
The room fell into a hush.
‘I like it,’ Suraina ma’am said, a slow smile forming on her face as she nodded.
A frantic rush of euphoria raced through my veins. This is it. I have won in life. When I’m on my deathbed thinking of all my life accomplishments, this one would be in the top three.
‘I do, too,’ Jai said.
I looked at him. His expression was inscrutable, but something had shifted in his eyes. Not surprise. Something closer to ... recognition.
‘It needs work,’ he continued. ‘But it has potential.’
A tender warmth stirred, catching me off guard.
The following murmurs of approval and praise stayed with me as Jai and I exited the meeting.
Since the workday was over, Jai told me to refine my pitch tomorrow. But I was too fired up. Ideas swarmed in my head, so I turned on my computer, cracked my knuckles and got to work.
Halfway through, a security guard came in carrying a large red box and placed it on my desk. ‘For the boss,’ he said before walking away.
At first glance, I thought it was an electronics box because of its matte finish and expensive feel.
But the distinctive black logo on it told me it was from The Masala Box – Mumbai’s most coveted Indian fine-dining restaurant, infamous for its three-month waitlist and a strict no-delivery policy (I knew this because Rhea and I had tried and failed to secure a reservation).
But of course, the rules didn’t apply to the rich.
My hunger flared at the thought of food. Maybe I should order something too. I picked it up and knocked on Jai’s door.
He was on a call, pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. His suit jacket hung on the back of his chair, and the sleeves of his shirt were neatly rolled up to his elbows.
I paused. This was the most casual I’d seen him. Without the armour of a perfectly pressed suit, he looked ... younger. More human.
Which was annoying, actually. It was easier to resent him when he looked like a robot in corporate clothing.
He stopped when he saw me. ‘Let me call you back,’ he said and ended the call.
‘This arrived for you.’ I placed the box on his desk.
He took his seat, and I turned to leave.
‘Join me,’ he said, and I froze.
‘I … I shouldn’t. I have work to do. And I’m not even hungry.’
‘Sit down, Ananya,’ Jai said with such calm authority that I couldn’t help but obey.
I hated that. The way he thought he could... command me to sit. But I was starving, and I’ve wanted to eat The Masala Box’s food since it opened.
He started unpacking the box. The food came in brass containers. As the lids lifted, a buttery, spiced aroma drifted out. My mouth watered at the sight: creamy dal makhani, pulao topped with saffron and nuts, flaky laccha paratha, tandoori broccoli with pomegranates and rasgullas.
My stomach grumbled loudly. Traitor!
He raised an amused brow. ‘Not hungry, hm?’
‘Dal makhani does that to people,’ I said lamely. Thankfully, he let it slide.
I watched him set down our plates and bowls, trying not to notice the way his rolled-up sleeves revealed his forearms— Stop it. He’s your boss.
Your boss, who made you redo a report for no reason this morning. Your boss, whom you called a dick six hours ago. The fact that he’d caught you when you fell didn’t change any of that!
He served me first before helping himself.
The gesture caught me off guard. This morning, he’d been snapping at me about vendor lists. Now he was ... being nice.
I didn’t know how to deal with this version of Jai Advani.
‘I thought The Masala Box had a strict no-delivery policy,’ I said, trying to fill the silence.
‘The owner is a friend,’ Jai replied. ‘He made an exception.’
I tried to picture him in everyday clothes – maybe shorts and a T-shirt, laughing with friends – and failed. It was like imagining a panther curled up like a pet cat. It didn’t fit.
‘Lucky. My friend and I have been trying to go there for months, but they’re always booked out,’ I said, taking my first bite.
Opulent, soulful flavours burst in my mouth and melted. This was the most delicious food I’d ever had. Sorry, Maa. ‘For good reason. Please tell your friend that God has blessed his chef’s hands. This is amazing.’
‘He is the chef. And I’ll pass the compliment along.
’ His mouth curved in a small smile. ‘Next time you want to go there, let me know, and I’ll get you a table.
Consider it my token of appreciation for your brilliant idea.
And for finding us a workshop for the peacock beadwork. They’re a great fit.’
‘Now I know why it’s so hard to get a reservation,’ I said, spearing a piece of broccoli with my fork.
A puzzled look formed on his face.
‘All the tables are blocked by your employees cashing in their tokens of appreciation.’
He paused, then, unexpectedly, a full, unrestrained laugh broke out of him.
It lit up his whole face – the edges of his eyes crinkled, and his mouth, usually set in a straight line, split into a wide grin.
And God, that laugh. Rich, deep and warm.
It softened the intimidating COO into a regular guy. And that made him even more attractive.
When it died down, his eyes found mine and lingered. The moment slowed down. Lightness still hung in the air, but there was something charged, too. I lowered my eyes, severing the contact. Time snapped back to its usual rhythm, and air whooshed into my lungs.
‘It’s also a peace offering,’ he said softly. ‘What you said in the storeroom—’
‘I’m sorry.’ The words tumbled out. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I was venting to my friend, and it was unprofessional, and—’
‘Were you wrong?’
I stopped. ‘What?’
‘Was anything you said untrue?’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Have I been making your life difficult?’
This felt like a trap.
‘I ...’ I took a breath. ‘You’ve been hard to work for. I know I’m still learning, but every time I try, you either dismiss me or move the goalposts. It feels as though you’re antagonising me just because we got off on the wrong foot.’
Silence stretched.
‘You’re right,’ he said finally.
‘I’m ... what?’
‘I’ve been more stressed than usual, and instead of managing it, I’ve been ...’ He exhaled. ‘Acting like a dick. As you so eloquently put it. Maybe even … being difficult because of our … previous encounters.’
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You deserve better. And starting Monday, things will be different.’
‘I’d like that,’ I said, biting my lip.
‘You’ll also be running things on your own.’ He met my eyes. ‘Think you can handle it?’
‘I …’ I straightened. ‘Yes. I can.’
‘Good.’ He nodded once. ‘And for the record – I never hated you.’