5. A Day Out
A Day Out
Jai
Soft light filtered through glass panels.
The rooftop restaurant’s altitude dulled the chaos of the city below and offered a gleaming view of the Mumbai skyline.
‘They’ve shelved the collection without a word.
No press interviews, no internal leaks,’ Nakul, my lawyer’s associate, said. ‘We caught it just in time.’
‘It still costs us a lot.’ We conducted a review and discovered that they had copied three of our designs.
When that was relayed to Meera, she promised that she could change them in time for production.
It would just mean tighter deadlines, longer hours and her whole team working day and night until the project was completed.
‘They want to settle,’ he said. ‘Private apology, financial compensation and withdrawal from the bridal segment for a year.’
‘One crore.’ My lips thinned. ‘They offer a rupee under it, we go to court.’
Nakul closed the file. ‘We’ll get it done.’
‘Good.’ I stood, buttoning up my suit. ‘Thank you for your time.’
Ananya rose, falling into step beside me.
‘They think an apology and a cheque will make this go away.’ My voice was low but hard. ‘Months of hard work. Hours of stitching, dyeing, revisions and fittings. All wasted.’
The tight leash I’d kept on my anger for this meeting had finally snapped, and rage coursed through me. ‘I was at the same goddamn conference as them two months ago. We smiled. Chatted. Shook hands. And they were planning to stab us in the back the entire time.
‘I trusted my karigars. Paid them above-market salaries, credited them publicly. And they walked. For what? A bigger envelope? Hell, if they had just told me wanted more pay, they could have come to me.’
My jaw clenched. ‘I’d have figured it out. But no. They took our work and handed it over like it meant nothing.’
‘They only took three designs. We still have people who stayed. Those who showed their loyalty to the brand. To you,’ Ananya said, her voice steady. ‘And Meera is reworking the compromised designs and is on schedule to finish in time. We’re still in control, Jai.’
I looked at her. There was a calm strength in her gaze, a conviction that shone through the red haze in my mind.
I felt myself unwind. I exhaled. ‘You’re right.’
Outside, I waved at Dilip, my driver, and he handed the ticket to the valet.
‘I have a burning question,’ Ananya said.
‘Shoot.’
‘Kavita had made a note next to our lawyer’s contact saying I’d need to book two slots when scheduling a meeting with him. We’ve, in fact, finished early,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘That must be for Pritesh, our main counsel,’ I replied. ‘Almost thirty years in this business and still hasn’t learned the difference between a meeting and a podcast.’
Ananya laughed, and I suppressed a smile.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. Dad.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘The deal is done!’ Dad’s voice boomed on the other end, ecstatic.
I froze, his words echoing in my ear. Exhilaration pumped into my veins.
He was in London for a defining moment in House of Advani’s history – finalising a deal with Harrods for year-round placement of our couture line.
It had been my idea. My pitch to the board.
My months of chasing meetings, refining collections and sitting through gruelling meetings across time zones.
I had travelled to London eight times in the past year to build a relationship and negotiate the terms. The final round was a formality: a signature, a photo and a toast. I’d wanted to do it, to see all my hard work finally come to fruition, but Mom thought that as the CEO and president of the company, it would be more appropriate for Dad to attend instead.
That, and she wanted to go along and shop in London.
He didn’t disagree. I was disappointed. But I let it go.
Getting this deal was important, not who shook hands after signing on the dotted line. Knowing this win was all mine, and getting promoted to COO for it, was enough.
I smiled. ‘Congratulations, Dad.’
‘No. Congratulations to you,’ he said. ‘You’re the reason we did it. I’m so proud of you.’
When I got my position three months ago, many thought it was premature. A part of me did too. This was the validation I was looking for, concrete proof that I deserved to be where I was. Not because of my surname, but because of my hard work and performance.
My grip on the phone tightened. ‘Thank you.’
I’d been wanting to hear these words from him for so long. When I finally did, they didn’t land the way I thought they would. I was elated, naturally, but I expected the moment to feel bigger. It was like a high that never came.
‘Your mom and I are coming back next week. Let’s celebrate over dinner, all of us.’
I forced a little smile. ‘Of course.’
The car rolled to a stop, and Dilip opened the back door for us.
I waited for a moment, surrounded by valet traffic, the low hum of engines and the distant smell of salty sea air. I’d just closed the biggest deal of my career.
Why did it feel like I was waiting for something else?
‘Jai?’
Ananya was looking at me, half-concerned. I gestured for her to take a seat before I circled the car and slid in.
‘What was that?’ she asked.
‘We got Harrods,’ I replied.
Her face lit up instantly. ‘Oh my God! That’s massive. Congratulations, Jai.’
‘Thanks.’ I nodded.
She tilted her head. ‘Aren’t you happy?’
I hesitated, sliding a glance at her. ‘This … isn’t how I thought it would feel.’
She looked at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The deal.’ I paused. ‘I thought there’d be … more. I’m happy, of course; I worked hard for it. But it … it feels like a box has been ticked. Nothing else.’ The words surprised me. I never said such things out loud. Not even to my closest friends. Especially not to my employees.
‘Do you know why?’ she asked softly.
My lips pressed together.
‘I know what to do. Let’s celebrate it.’ She beamed, then leaned forward. ‘Can you please drop us at Babulnath Temple instead?’ she asked Dilip.
I sighed loudly. ‘We need to go back to the office, Ananya.’
‘I blocked off two hours, but we got done in forty minutes. We have time.’
‘To celebrate by visiting a temple?’ I raised a brow.
‘By eating the best dosa in Mumbai.’
Dilip glanced at me in the rear-view mirror, waiting for my word.
‘It’ll be worth it,’ Ananya said, bright-eyed and persuasive. ‘I promise.’
‘Alright.’
Her grin widened.
Fifteen minutes later, we were standing in front of a small roadside stall opposite Babulnath Temple. It had navy awnings, a faded signboard that read ‘Anna Dosa’, plastic stools and two men flipping dosas on massive iron tawas behind a steel cart. It smelled of butter, spices and food poisoning.
I didn’t expect a five-star restaurant, not on this street. But I’d imagined walls. A kitchen. A table. The bare minimum.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I said. ‘This is unhygienic. We’re not eating here.’
‘I’ve been coming here for the past six years. It’s fine,’ she insisted.
I looked at the cart. The plastic stools. The open flame.
Rekha Mom would have had an aneurysm if she were ever around Anna Dosa. I could already hear her voice. We’re Advanis. We don’t eat street food. What if you get sick? What if someone takes a photo? What will people think?
‘One bite,’ Ananya said. ‘If you don’t like it, we’ll leave.’
She wasn’t here. And I was tired of living by her rules. ‘Let’s do this.’
A young boy came over with menus, and Ananya placed our order.
‘Sit.’ She sat on a plastic stool and tapped the empty one beside her.
Barely two minutes had passed, and our dosas arrived – crispy, golden and folded over masala potatoes. The sambar was steaming, and the coconut chutney was pale and cold.
I had a bite.
Paused.
The dosa was paper-thin and perfectly blistered. The filling was buttery and spiced just right. The sambar and chutney were fresh, and they hit spots on my tongue I didn’t know existed.
A memory resurfaced.
I was seven, maybe eight, sitting on a stool outside a stall just like this one. Dadiji was beside me, laughing as I got chutney all over my face. She wiped it away with her dupatta, smiling.
A cotton ball formed in my throat.
Ananya was looking at me eagerly. ‘So?’
‘It’s good.’
She grinned. ‘Told you.’
When was the last time I had street food?
Probably when I was seven – and yet, almost twenty-two years later, the taste still lingered.
Dadiji used to pick me up from school, and we’d walk past a chaat stall on our way home.
The smell alone was enough for me to pull at her dupatta.
Every day, she’d say Friday, if I was good.
And no matter what, at the end of the week, we’d stop there and eat one plate of sev puri and one of pani puri.
Then, Rekha Mom married Dad and put a stop to it. Said we needed to ‘act like the family we were meant to be’.
She’d been preparing us for success before it even came. The right clothes. The right manners. The right places to be seen.
When House of Advani finally took off, we were ready. Polished. Perfect.
But somewhere in that transformation, we’d stopped being a family that ate chaat on Friday afternoons. We became the Advanis – with a capital A.
I wasn’t always sure which version of us was better off.
I glanced at Ananya. She licked a drop of chutney off her fingertip, looking completely content.
I smiled.
Then we ended up at Chowpatty Beach.
One minute, I was about to text Dilip to get the car; the next, Ananya was veering towards the beach, drawn by the breeze and the thought of roasted corn.
‘I thought the dosa was the celebration?’
Our shadows were long, and the sun was about to sink into the Arabian Sea.
Crowds were gathered in clusters: families laughing with kids, college kids taking selfies and couples walking hand in hand.
The faint chatter of their conversations mingled with the gentle lapping of the waves against the coast.
‘It’s a two-part celebration,’ she answered, slipping out of her flats.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked as she picked them up and continued walking.
‘What’s the point of coming to the beach if you’re not going to feel the sand beneath your feet?’ She shrugged.
I looked down at my sand-dusted shoes. To hell with it. I slipped out of them, peeled off my socks, stuffed them inside the shoes and then hooked them on my fingers.
My toes sank into the warm sand. The grains shifted and moulded as I walked. It felt unfamiliar. But good.
We stopped by the cart where a woman was roasting bhutta over open coals, and dark smoke curled in the air.
‘I’m good,’ I said when Ananya was placing an order.
‘Didi, can I have one too?’ A little boy appeared in tattered clothes and tangled hair.
She hesitated, just for a second, then quickly glanced at her purse.
‘I’m getting it,’ I said, pulling out my wallet.
‘No—’
I handed the vendor ?500. ‘Please keep the change.’
‘Thank you,’ Ananya murmured, then smiled and nodded at the boy.
Within seconds, two more kids appeared, tugging at her sleeves and asking for the same thing. Ananya’s smile broadened, and she placed more orders before crouching down to ask for their names and whether they liked extra lemon.
I knew hundreds of people who gave a fortune to charity organisations. Most wouldn’t even blink at the sight of a starving child, let alone chat and laugh with them.
Two minutes and three ears of corn later, they grinned up at us. ‘Thank you, Didi! Thank you, Bhaiyya!’ They skipped off to the beach, laughter trailing behind them.
Ananya finally received her own, flecked with black dots and glistening with red chilli, salt and lemon. She held it like it was a prize.
She looked happier than I’d felt hearing about Harrods.
I wondered what her secret was. I’d spent the better part of the last decade chasing things that were supposed to bring me happiness: good grades, deals and titles.
And yet, here she was, barefoot on a beach, eating bhutta like she had everything she wanted.
‘Want a bite?’ she asked, offering it to me.
What am I doing wrong?
I looked down at the half-eaten ear of corn.
Maybe this was the answer. Happiness wasn’t always at the end of a long race, but it was in the present. In roadside dosas. In walking barefoot on the beach. In giving. In a warm, spiced bhutta. Maybe happiness didn’t need to be earned. It needed to be allowed.
I leaned down and took a bite. ‘Delicious.’
She grinned, then inched closer to the water until she was close enough for the waves to wash over her feet.
‘You’re so lucky to have grown up near the beach,’ she said.
‘I don’t remember when I last came to Chowpatty,’ I said.
Probably with Dadaji and Dadiji, before Rekha Mom came along and decided Indian beaches weren’t ‘for people like us’.
‘No way.’ Ananya’s eyes widened, locking on mine. ‘If I grew up in Mumbai, I’d make my parents bring Bhaiyya and me here every weekend.’
That’s surprising. ‘Are you not from here?’
‘I’m from Banaras,’ she replied, a soft smile forming on her face. ‘Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. The Arabian Sea is no match for Ganga Maa.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, jutting my chin towards the view behind her.
Ananya turned and paused.
The sea had nearly swallowed the sun, casting fiery hues on the water. Pink and tangerine painted the wispy clouds.
Her eyes squinted as she looked at the sea. Her skin caught the dying rays of the sun. Wind tugged strands of her hair away from her face and lifted them in waves around her shoulders.
‘Maybe it’s a close second.’
Ananya was beautiful. I knew that the moment I laid eyes on her. But there was something about her in this moment. Authentic, carefree, barefoot. I couldn’t look away.
‘I think it’s one of a kind.’