2. Cheeni Kum
Life at Made in Mumbai was set. As long as she didn’t see the grumpy owner, which she hadn’t in the last week. Her work was a mix of designing and sourcing. She had to tap into the GK Textiles’ mill produce, their partner factories and sometimes also bring her own contacts for fabrics that weren’t in their expertise. The first floor people didn’t take too well to her friendly olive branches though.
They needed ‘to-the-point’ conversations. It was as if they were conditioned to behave like robots at work and store their personality in their lunch bags for when they returned home. Thank god everybody on the ground floor carried their personalities on their sleeves. She would have died of boredom otherwise. The Made in Mumbai people got together and ate lunch on one table, went out for smoke and tea breaks at 4 dot, sometimes played music and clapped at her Josh movie jokes. They understood that Josh was Shah Rukh and Aishwarya’s best movie, not Devdas. They were her kind of people.
Except Rustom. He was a Devdas himself. Not Shah Rukh Devdas. Abhay Deol DevD.
“This is really good, Rustom bhai. Really, really good,” she handed back the fabric samples that he had designed, then mocked-up.
“Yeah,” he stuffed them into his binder. She knew he didn’t like showing things to her for approval, but that was the hierarchy. She couldn’t help it.
“Wait, wait, wait!” She held his hands. “What is that?”
He eyed her dubiously. Ever since that first time she had let off like a loose canon, he had looked at her like she was a ticking time bomb.
“You made this?” She bellowed, delicately picking the pista green cotton silk square that was worked intricately with rani pink and platinum buttas. “Wow, it’s almost like… khinkhab. How did you manage it?”
“With my hands,” he grunted.
“Will you teach me?”
Surprised, he harrumphed. Then plucked the fabric from her fingers and preened back into his cabin.
“You shouldn’t have acted like a bitch to him on your first day,” Riya reiterated, collecting the sample swathes from their co-working table. “He is cordial otherwise.”
“Arey tu tension kayko leta hai re?” Maya shut her own fabric binder and got to her feet. “Have I been a bitch to him after that day?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Riya made that cute ‘what are you trying to say’ face. It was Maya’s favourite expression of her. That was her reaction to most of the things she said. Maya took it as a compliment.
“When someone thinks you are bad in the first meeting, and then slowly discovers they weren’t right after all, it is easier to win them over. If you try to be goody-goody from the get go with a hostile party then you will never win them over. Ok? Now…”
“Maya?” Leo called out.
“Yes?”
“Gautam Sir is calling you.”
“Me?” She pointed to herself.
“Yes, you.”
“Me as in me-me? Are you sure he said Maya Kotak?”
“No he said Maya Sarabhai but she isn’t available so I am sending you up.”
“Ha ha. Less Hotstar, more… receptioning.”
“Go,” Leo laughed, pointing her in the direction of the staircase to heaven.
Maya prepped herself this time. She ran to the bathroom, checked if her attire was ‘workplace appropriate’ and added an extra dash of lipstick. She wore a blue pinstriped boyfriend shirt tucked into a high-waisted navy pair of wide-legged trousers. A brown belt cinched the look. Workplace appropriate much?
She tucked her hair behind her ears, pushed her rolled sleeves up her elbow and tiptoed up the stairs in her mules. Heels were good, but this uneven moody workplace required flats. Maya went up running after one point, riveted all over again by the trees and the trunks. Today the terrace floors were dry, the sun out bright, making it a tropical haven in the concrete jungle of Mumbai.
“Hey!” She waved at Sia coming down from the beast’s terrace. She nodded, her kind smile in place.
“How’s the josh?”
“What? Sia stopped.
“I mean… how’s his mood?”
“As usual,” she shrugged.
Maya made a face. Was this usual the usual she had seen when she had seen him for the first time last week. Or was this usual happy-happy and not the usual she had seen that day? She shook her head, climbing the last set of three stairs to his terrace. The door was open now. Still, she knocked. Workplace appropriate.
“Come in.”
Maya stepped inside the glasshouse. It was… wow . His desk was long, long enough to roll out fabric samples. But it looked sturdy enough to play pool on too. The dark wood looked smoky and perfect, the book shelves behind him matching its aesthetic. A long brown leather couch sat on one side of the glasshouse, while artfully arranged cabinets made the space a mix of cosy and functional.
“I said come in,” he clipped again. And Maya startled, meeting his eyes. He sat behind his desk, in another one of those perfect shirts that stretched across his chest. It was blue this time. Did he intentionally twin with her? Was he stalking her? Ooooh, what if he had constructed this whole thing? Stalked her, found out she wanted a job and given it to her?
“Are you hard of hearing and did not disclose it at the time of hiring?”
“Huh? No. No.”
She power-walked into his office, flipping her hair behind her shoulder, low-key showing him that her outfit was workplace appropriate today. He did not seem to care though as his compressed lips remained compressed and eyes remained on her eyes.
“Sit.”
She did. A moment of silence passed. And she wondered if he had called her here to talk about their shared history. Fine, it was one day fifteen years ago. But it was still history. That day was fun. Beautiful in fact. If he had called her to ask her to keep that to herself…
“I’ll keep it to myself.”
“What?”
“Our history. I haven’t disclosed it to anybody yet. And I don’t intend to, if you are wondering about it. It’s unprofessional and I may look like I am all about breaking rules but I respect professionalism.”
“Good to know. But I did not call you for that.”
“No? Oh.”
“You have been bothering GK Textiles employees and I need you to know that when they say no, it means no. We source our fabrics from our own mills or those we have partnered with. I appreciate your contacts, but without passing our quality checks, they cannot be enrolled in our suppliers list.”
“Oh… kay. Patel & Sons is top notch. I can vouch for them. They do their muslins the old-school way, trust me. You wouldn’t have seen or felt anything like it…”
“And you need to make your designs fabric-compatible,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken.
“I do!” Maya sat forward.
“I’m sure you do. But make it a practise here. Sahyadri has a whole lot on her plate. We cannot expect her to bring finishing touches on your work…”
Maya opened her phone and pulled up the email of her designs, showing it to him — “It is fabric compatible.”
That got him to stop talking. For half a second he looked like he would apologise but then he only gave a curt nod.
“Your experience not withstanding, we have hired you…”
“I have eleven years of experience!” Maya burst out. “But you wouldn’t know that because you wouldn’t have read my file or resume or had the patience to ask me.”
He was busy hitting keys on his Mac. She seethed, about to tear into him again.
“Maya Sanghvi née Kotak,” he read out, probably from her file. “You are married?”
“I was. I am back to using my old surname Kotak but some documents still have Sanghvi.”
He continued reading — “34 years old…”
“Even you must be 34,” she blurted. His eyes rose to hers. Ok, it was just too easy to look at him. Even then he had been a good looking boy. But just a boy. A naive, simple boy. Now, he was… a man. No, the man.
“You are 34 too, right?”
He glanced back at his screen and continued reading out her degrees, her accomplishments, her strengths, her pet peeves. Not looking even a little bit impressed.
“Can be insubordinate if it’s about my creativity,” he mouthed. Then loudly — “I can see that.”
“Listen, G, I know there’s history and we got off on the wrong foot…”
“Gautam.”
“Huh?”
“Gautam,” he corrected.
“Everybody here calls you Gautam Sir.”
“You can call me that too.”
“Wouldn’t it be weird? Like… we’ve taken bites off the same idli. You’ve drunk chutney in front of me…”
“Right,” he pushed back his chair. “That will be all. If you need anything else, feel free to get in touch with Sahyadri.”
“You mean Sia?”
“That’s what some of them call her here.”
“You don’t.”
“There is a reason people are given proper names.”
“Yeah, it’s the noise somebody makes to get your attention.”
Did she see a spark of amusement in his eyes. No. It was the reflection of sunlight from the glass. He inclined his head, his hair so thick and wavy and looking just perfect on that proud face. Maya took her cue and began to rise, then sat back.
“Actually,” she started. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“What happened? To you, I mean? In all these years? I…” her face softened. “I am really happy to see what you made here. But how did you do it? You were driving trucks…”
“I was the cleaner actually,” he cut in brutally. The first reminders of her shame began to creep up her spine.
“I worked between mills and textile companies. Grew up getting to understand the business. A few years later, a mill outside Surat was closing and they needed to sell off immediately. I bought it at a dirt cheap price, restarted it, and haven’t looked back.”
Maya smiled, feeling that shame still there, but pride burn bigger inside. Like the sun that would shine brilliantly even in the shadows of the clouds.
“And now you are expanding into the designing segment.”
“Yes. That is why you are here. Made in Mumbai studio is new, the staff is not well-versed in big designers and couture shows. Our deal with Amber Raisingh is signed…”
“Wow, I thought you were still negotiating? That’s what everybody downstairs thinks.”
“It was done last night,” he declared. “Amber’s assistant designer will be here sometime this week to begin work. Make her comfortable and do this well. If we ace their autumn-winter collection then they are with us for the next three years.”
Maya blinked, absorbing all the good, and frankly exciting news. Amber Raisingh, one of the best Indian couture designers in the world. Her style was timeless, classic — silks and brocades along with the lightest cottons and mulmuls. Hello Dream, you sneaky thing that’s going to come true!
“Hello?” Gautam called out. And she smiled, jumping to her feet — “Yes, I am back. It was a nice ride in lalaland. But worry you not, I will take such good care of Amber Raisingh’s assistant that she will shift permanently into this villa!”
“Not that kind of care, either,” he warned. She waved, turning her back and running out of the glasshouse. Her feet faltered as a tiny green almond fruit fell off the tree. Maya picked it up and dashed to the tree’s curving branch. It was heavy with green leaves. This wasn’t the season of fruits.
She brought the almond to her mouth and bit in. It wasn’t sweet but it wasn’t tart either.
“The exit is that way,” his voice startled her. She glanced over her shoulder, a sheepish smile stretching her lips. He stood on the threshold of his office, his sleeves rolled up, pants fitting his hips like they were tailored on him this morning before he left for work.
“I was just about to go…” Maya turned, strolling down his terrace. “Want?” She offered the almond as she passed him. The mask of professionalism on his face was this close to breaking. But he didn’t burst. She kept glancing back to check if he would show anything. Anger, amusement, frustration. Nothing.
When she reached the main floor and began to call everybody to lunch, they broke her heart.
“I’m done.” “We ate…” “Just finished.” “Where were you?”
“Dhokebaazo…” she pointed to them, then took her tiffin and began to wonder where she would eat for the most entertainment. Instagram-scrolling wouldn’t cut it today.
She was walking around clueless, debating if the outdoors patio furniture was good enough to eat when she found the peons and the maids just opening their food on the verandah.
“Main aa sakti hoon?” She called out from the window. They gaped at her, their newspapers and tiffins abandoned. Maya didn’t wait. She ran out the main door and pulled a chair right beside them.
And they shared a whole lot of food. Thecha, pav, bhindi made so damn delicious with shredded coconut by one of their wives, and of course, her sad red pasta from last night which they seemed to ‘like.’ She got to know about their stories, where they lived, where their children went to school and even about the homes they were building or renovating in their villages. Apparently, building homes in villages was a thing.
“Hey, Maya,” Leo tapped her head. “It’s Rustom’s birthday today.”
“Whaaa?” She gabbled, chewing on her last thecha-pav bite. “Nobody told me…”
“Nobody knew. I just got a Facebook reminder.”
“So, what’s the birthday scene here?”
“Birthday scene as in?”
“As in, cake, pizza, some fun?”
Leo looked like he had swallowed a stone.
“A gift voucher.”
“That’s it?”
He shrugged.
“No can do. We are contributing and ordering Rustom’s favourite cake.”
“He likes cheesecake,” Leo squinted. “I think.”
“Say no more! I have an idea.”
————————————————————
“Surprise!!!!!!” She and the twenty other people behind her screamed in his ears. Rustom jumped. “What?!” He turned, then stopped, his big eyes going from her face to the others behind her to the massive salted caramel cheese cake in her hands. A golden candle burned bright on the top.
Maya grinned, miming him to blow. And for the first time since she had come to Made in Mumbai, Rustom smiled. A tiny, shy, begrudging smile. He pulled back, then blew the candle to loud hoots. Maya hooted too, swiping her fingers through some fluffy cream and smearing it on his nose.
Rustom froze.
Silence.
Everybody froze.
“It’s a cheesecake and it’s salted caramel,” Maya informed him. “The best kind of cake with the best kind of flavour, Rusti Bhai!”
Rustom chuckled, then let out a full blown laugh. The office atmosphere warmed again. He wiped the cream off his nose and licked it clean, eliciting merry sounds and bright photo flashes from around her.
“Yay!!! Happppy birth-day to you…” they all sang with her. She passed the cake to Riya and reached into her side pocket to pull out the fistful of confetti she had emptied there from a party shop. She threw it over Rustom. Then threw more around to more hoots and cheers.
“What’s going on here?” Sia’s loud voice cut through their party. Everybody cleaved away for her. And there stood the man himself, looking just as good as she had left him this afternoon. He and Sia seemed to be returning from somewhere as they entered their office area.
“What is all this?” Gautam frowned.
“It’s Rusti Bhai’s birthday!” Maya chirped. “Come, we are just cutting the cake. It’s salted caramel…”
“Please make sure you clean up all the mess before you leave. And keep it down, people are working upstairs. Happy birthday Rustom.”
With that he was gone, followed by his Employee Of The Year. Maya shrugged, getting a table cleared to cut and distribute the cake. When everybody was happily digging in, including Rustom who had just discovered the wonders of salted caramel in his favourite cheesecake, Maya stole a piece to run upstairs. She remembered he did love sugary things. He had had them add extra sugar to his filter coffee at Mysore Cafe that night.
Maya climbed up the final stairs. It was second time in a day that she found herself on his terrace. This time, just as the sun was softening in the sky. The birdsong was louder, the tinkle of sea waves sweeter. Ahhh… my coffee-break spot , she lamented. But pasted a smile on her face as she knocked on his closed glass door. It was partly reflective but she couldn’t see what was going on inside.
“Yes?”
“Hi, it’s me. Maya.”
“Come in.”
She pushed open the door and came face to face with Sia.
“Oh hi, I didn’t know you were here or I would have gotten two pieces. We have sent a whole section of cake to your floor…”
“What cake?”
“Rustom’s birthday cake,” she held the styrofoam plate up, glancing at Gautam reclining in his chair. “It’s really good, I tasted a slice at Poetry & Cheesecake before getting it. I mean… I like everything salted caramel, and I am the biggest champion of their salted caramel… but never hurts to see if it’s fresh…”
“Thanks. I don’t take sugar on weekdays,” came his curt reply.
“Oh my god! Neither do I,” Sia gasped. “In fact, even on weekends I only take brown sugar or jaggery powder. It has made my waistline go one size smaller and I feel so active.” This last one was spoken with a sneaky glance at her curvy hips. Maya straightened her posture.
“It also makes you think clearer,” Gautam — the party pooper, supplemented. “Added sugar slows and swells the body, makes the mind lethargic.”
“I swear. So, take it Maya, we are both health conscious. But thanks for bringing it, yaa?”
What a sudden bitch! Chameleon, Maya seethed, doing an about turn and marching out of the glasshouse. The door shut behind her and she scooped a massive dollop of cream on her finger and stuffed it right into her mouth. Awww…
wow, wow, wow! Her eyes widened. Butterscotch granules. The slice she tasted didn’t have that.
“Sugar may make your waist swell but it makes my whole heart burst, Chameleon!” She whispered-shouted to the glass wall. And like magic, the thing lit up. She jumped back.
There reclined the boss, his gaze seared on hers, his hand on the light switch behind him. Their eyes met. Sia-the-Chameleon was clueless, back turned to her, talking animatedly. But for one moment, he held her gaze.
Then his eyes fell on her cream-covered finger in front of her mouth and Maya made a beeline for the stairs.