8. Guilt Trip
Guilt Trip
Ananya
Today was the big day.
Once Jai finalised his business plan for the new line, he reached out to the Mahala family.
I didn’t know the details of their call, but he said he had one opportunity to pitch it, and it had to be perfect.
We’d pulled several late nights and worked through the weekends, fine-tuning our proposal until my brain felt like it was made of spreadsheets and mock-ups.
And now, here we were, 35,000 feet in the air, en route to Bhagalpur, a small village in Bihar.
I’d sent Jai a list of flight and hotel options, expecting him to pick one.
He took one look at them and told me to book the best available villa instead (which I understood, because even the best hotels there were worse than three-star properties in Mumbai) and that we’d be taking his private jet.
Apparently, going through airports at odd hours and sitting next to strangers was too much of an inconvenience.
I glanced around at the cream leather seats, polished mahogany panels and the two smartly dressed, model-like attendants.
Jai said I could ask for whatever I wanted for breakfast and they’d whip it up.
There was also a bedroom in the back that I accidentally discovered while looking for the bathroom.
This was convenience on another level.
Beside me, Jai sat with a cup of chai in his hand, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. To him, this wasn’t luxury or indulgence; it was as inconspicuous as air – something he didn’t even notice.
I was bored and had no work to do. The adrenaline of the past few weeks had finally burned out, leaving me drained. I sank deeper into my seat, my eyelids growing heavier with each passing second.
Maybe I need to rest my eyes for a bit …
‘Ananya,’ Jai’s soft voice made me stir.
I blinked awake and realised I’d been using Jai’s shoulder as my pillow.
‘Sorry,’ I murmured, lifting my head.
His face was inches away from mine.
The space between us turned electric. The intensity with which he looked at me made my heart stutter.
His gaze dipped to my lips and lingered. A nervous flutter took hold in my stomach. The moment stretched and slowed, strumming with tension, waiting for one of us to snap.
Then came the pilot’s announcement; the aircraft doors were open and ready for disembarkation.
Jai pulled away, shattering the moment. ‘We’ve landed. Let’s go,’ he said and rose.
My heart drummed against my ribcage as I followed him out.
A car was waiting for us at the tarmac, ready to take us to our villa. Within minutes, we were on the road.
Beside me, Jai was on his phone, completely normal.
My mind was still reeling. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the thought circling my mind. What the hell just happened?
We arrived at the villa past lunchtime. It was the farmhouse of a businessman, and honestly, it exceeded my expectations (which, to be fair, weren’t very high), with spacious rooms, antique furnishings and a large lawn with a pool and a children’s play area.
By then, I’d regained control of my senses. If he wanted to pretend as if that almost-kiss didn’t happen, fine, I could do the same.
In fact, it was better this way. I didn’t even want to kiss him. Sure, he was attractive. And charming. And … perfect. But that didn’t mean I liked him. He was my boss, for God’s sake. It would be wildly inappropriate.
I stole a glance at him.
Jai was lounging on the sofa, his legs up on the table in front of him. His suit jacket lay on the armrest, his tie loosened. This would be the most relaxed I’d seen him, if not for the laptop on his lap.
The caretaker had whipped up a delicious plate of chana ghugni for us. I was halfway through my lunch, but his plate remained untouched.
‘Jai, your food is getting cold,’ I said.
‘Just a moment,’ he replied, distracted. I didn’t believe him.
‘My mom says that ignoring food after it has been served is disrespectful to Anna Devata. Brings bad luck.’
He glanced at me. I kept a straight face. He sighed, put his laptop aside and finally grabbed his spoon.
‘Does she really say that?’ he asked after a few bites.
‘Nope.’ I smiled.
He shook his head, letting out a low chuckle.
‘Are you nervous?’ I asked. ‘For the pitch?’
This deal clearly meant a lot to Jai. His unhealthy attachment to his laptop for the past few weeks proved it. But he had been in this industry for eight years and had plenty of experience. He had negotiated a deal with Harrods, for God’s sake. This should be easy, right?
He paused, then confessed, ‘A little.’
‘I thought after Harrods, everything else would feel easy.’
‘Dadaji started House of Advani with a thousand rupees, a sewing machine and a dream,’ he said.
‘He wanted to show India’s disappearing craftsmanship to the world and give artisans like himself the recognition they deserve for their work.
This line is my way of honouring him. So, this meeting is very important. ’
Amarnath Mohanlal Advani passed away peacefully in his sleep a year ago. It was all over the news. Jai clearly still mourned him.
‘That’s … very sweet.’
‘He wasn’t just a good businessman, you know? He was a wonderful grandfather, too,’ Jai said. ‘He’d take me on walks to Marine Drive on Sundays, and we’d eat kulfi. He taught me how to play chess and fly kites. He …’ His voice grew thick. ‘He was the best.’
My heart clenched. ‘He’d be proud of you.’
Emotion rose in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
He had obviously been very close to his grandfather. What about his parents? I couldn’t imagine a woman like Rekha raising a man like Jai. What was his childhood like? What was his time in Oxford like?
My thoughts brought me to a realisation. I knew nothing about the man.
Sure, I knew how he liked his chai, what made him laugh and how his brain worked under pressure. But him personally? Nothing.
What were his hobbies? Was he religious? Did he like cricket? What were his fears?
Even Rishi and the other friends I’d made had little insight to offer despite having worked at HoA for years. Isha and Jasmine had scoured the internet for details, but Jai Advani remained an enigma.
I didn’t know why I was so interested. But I wanted to know everything about him.
About an hour before we needed to leave for the meeting, I retreated to my bedroom and got ready.
I kept my make-up light – only mascara, kajal and lip oil. I wore my lucky sea green sari and paired it with small gold hoop earrings and Maa’s watch.
Maa.
Seema’s wedding was this weekend, and my family and I had been excited to see each other after more than ten months. But I had to cancel because of this meeting. I’d called Maa to tell her, but she didn’t pick up; no doubt busy with all the wedding preparations.
I grabbed my phone and looked at her chat. I’d texted her, but she hadn’t read it or replied yet.
My eyes fell on the clock. Damn it, I’m late.
I walked out into the living room and paused.
Jai stood there, waiting for me in a crisp white linen shirt and beige chinos, exuding a fresh scent and assured confidence.
His gaze warmed my skin as it coasted down my body before meeting my eyes. A smile curved his lips. ‘You look beautiful.’
My heart skipped a beat. I swallowed. ‘Thank you. And you look …’ Hot. ‘Good.’
‘Let’s go.’
The Mahalas lived a ten-minute drive away in a simple two-storey home with faded walls and silk threads drying on the veranda.
‘They’re perfect for us,’ I murmured as a man in his fifties walked out of the door, wearing a simple pair of a yellow shirt and pants, and a smile on his face.
‘Let’s hope they say yes,’ Jai replied, then smiled broadly in return and joined his hands. ‘Sharanji, namaste.’
‘Namaste Jai sahab, Ananyaji.’ He joined his hands. ‘Please come in.’
The interiors were modest, with sun-faded light-blue walls, the earthy smell of dye, and shelves stacked with shimmering silk.
We took a seat on a sofa.
On the divan in front of us, an old lady sat with her legs folded. She used a curved knife to peel betel nuts, her hands moving with practised precision.
‘Dadiji, namaste,’ Jai greeted, and I echoed him with a smile.
She remained silent and popped a nut into her mouth, letting the following loud crunch answer for her – she didn’t want this deal.
Jai didn’t let it deter him as he refocused on Sharanji and made small talk. My attention was on the coffee table in the middle. On it lay a kauseya weave sari in the most gorgeous shade of yellow. It was definitely one of the most beautiful fabrics I’d seen.
A woman entered with a tray full of chai and refreshments, her sari’s pallu covering her head. Probably his wife.
‘Oh, there was no need for this, bhabhiji,’ I said. ‘But thank you.’
‘May I?’ Jai asked as he gestured towards the sari.
‘Of course,’ Sharanji replied. ‘It’s for you.’
Jai carefully unfolded it. ‘This is extraordinary work,’ he said, running his hand over the fabric. ‘Thank you for keeping this art alive. It’s a shame the world doesn’t even know what it’s missing. And it’s time to change that.’
Just like that, Jai seamlessly transitioned to his pitch.
The air shifted. His deep, steady voice filled the room.
He promised the family legacy and reach, painting a world in which kauseya would become a rare luxury.
He had a sharp, magnetic presence that commanded attention; even Dadiji forgot her betel nuts.
I could only focus on the effortless authority rolling off him. The eyes glittered with passion. The sharp curve of his cheekbones. And the full lips that had been inches away from mine not too long ago.
I crossed my legs.
He handed Sharanji a file labelled ‘Financial Analysis’. ‘Let’s build something that carries the family’s legacy into the future.’
Sharanji didn’t even look at it; he already seemed charmed.
‘You talk well.’ Dadiji carved open a nut. ‘But we’re not interested.’
‘Amma, please. Let me—’