The Masala Box
Ananya
I’m going to be late.
I could hear Kavita complain in my head. You’re late, Ananya. Second warning, Ananya. Blah, blah, blah, Ananya.
The elevator doors were halfway shut when I sprinted to the lobby. ‘Wait!’
They reopened, revealing a tall guy with longish hair. Cute.
‘Thank you,’ I breathed, stepping in and offering him a grateful smile.
‘Rough morning?’ he asked.
‘Just running behind,’ I said, still a little breathless. ‘Not yet used to the schedule here.’
‘Ah, you’re new.’ He said it like it explained everything. ‘Don’t worry, it gets easier. I’m Rishi, by the way. PR department.’
‘Ananya. Assistant.’ I hesitated. ‘To the COO.’
‘Jai Advani?’ His eyebrows rose slightly. ‘How’s that going?’
The careful way he asked made me wonder what he’d heard. Office gossip? Reputation?
‘It’s ... a lot to learn,’ I said diplomatically.
‘I bet.’ He smiled, but didn’t push further.
The elevator dinged for the second floor. ‘This is me.’ He stepped out, holding the door. ‘If you ever need a break or just a friendly face, find me.
I know all the good spots around here.’
‘I might take you up on that.’
‘Please do.’ He gave me an encouraging nod. ‘Good luck out there.’
The doors closed.
I smiled despite myself. Maybe this job wouldn’t be completely terrible.
Kavita stood with her feet tapping the floor and eyes on her watch.
‘I’m here,’ I said, dropping my bag in its usual spot.
She pursed her lips and handed me a paper. ‘He wants the quarterly fabric procurement report updated before the morning meeting at nine.’
I blinked. ‘That’s in forty-five minutes.’
‘Then you better start now.’
I pulled up the file, fingers flying across the keyboard. The data was already there; I just needed to format it as per his specifications. Which were, of course, extremely specific.
Thirty minutes later, I printed it and knocked on Jai’s door.
‘Come in.’
I walked in and placed the report on his desk. ‘The procurement numbers you asked for.’
He glanced at the sheet. Frowned. Picked it up. ‘The vendor names aren’t alphabetised within each category.’
I stared at him. ‘Kavita didn’t mention that in the—’
‘It’s standard practice.’ He handed it back. ‘Redo it.’
‘The meeting is in fifteen minutes.’
‘Then I suggest you work quickly.’ He turned back to his computer, dismissing me.
I stood there for a moment, gripping the report, then walked out.
Kavita took one look at my face. ‘What happened?’
‘He wants it redone. Alphabetically.’
She sighed. ‘I’ll show you where the vendor master list is. You can copy–paste the order from there.’
I got it done with three minutes to spare. When I delivered it, Jai barely looked at it. ‘Fine. Leave it.’
Not a thank you. Not an acknowledgement that I’d just reformatted an entire report in twelve minutes. Just ‘fine’.
Then, Kavita gave me a second sheet of paper. ‘Need this done by four.’
‘Again?’ For the past two weeks, all she had been giving me were to-do lists that felt more like punishment than tasks for the COO’s assistant.
Because of that, most days, I ended up attending only one meeting with Jai, during which he’d tell me off at least once.
Tomorrow was her last day before maternity leave, and I was still figuring out how to be an assistant.
She raised her eyebrows.
‘What I meant was another list? Yay!’ I forced a grin and took the paper.
I spent the next five hours hand-delivering fabric swatches to production and marketing, sending packages to magazines for their editorial shoots and updating fabric movement in an Excel sheet.
Finally, I was on my last task: checking thank-you gifts for brand ambassadors. Checking, not even packing.
‘If this isn’t punishment, I don’t know what is,’ I grumbled. Two hours and a dozen boxes later, I was on my last one.
‘At least you’re not getting yelled at by him,’ Rhea’s voice floated through the speakerphone.
A bead of sweat trickled down my back as I looked at the packing list and the contents of this box. Mini lookbook? Check. Brooch? Check. A handwritten note? Check. Fabric care kit? Missing.
‘I’m sure he will make up for all this lost time once Kavita leaves.’
I sifted through the clutter on the desk, checking underneath it. Not here. I sighed and looked around the stockroom. Tall cupboards lined the walls. Had to be there.
‘Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad,’ she said as I scanned them. Thankfully, they were all labelled.
‘I’m telling you he hates me,’ I said. ‘Monday, he made me redo a brief twice because the margins weren’t “standard”.
On Wednesday, he made me sit through a two-hour meeting to take notes, then told me my handwriting was illegible and I should’ve typed them.
Yesterday, he sent back a summary report with corrections in red pen.
Red pen, Rhea. Like I’m in primary school. ’
‘Okay, that’s petty—’
‘And last week? I suggested we move the vendor meeting to accommodate their schedule, and he said – and I quote – “I don’t recall asking for your input on scheduling”. In front of the entire team.’
‘Ouch.’
Got it. The fabric care kit was on the top shelf.
I grabbed the ladder and dragged it to the other side of the room.
‘All this just because I mistook his cab for mine, called him a dick for being rude – which he was – and implied he was following me around, which, again, seemed like it. Mind you, this was all before I started working for him,’ I said.
‘And I’ve been trying so hard since, but it’s like he’s decided I’m incompetent, and now everything I do is doubly scrutinised. I swear—’
‘Ahem.’
I whirled around.
Jai.
My eyes widened in horror. ‘Rhea, I need to go.’
Had he heard us? For how long had he been standing there? Oh God, no. He definitely heard me complaining and calling him a dick. Again.
He entered the room, his eyes trailing down my form to the ladder, and then to the messy desk. ‘We need to go to the marketing meeting.’
‘But I’m not done—’
‘Now.’
‘I didn’t even know I was supposed to be in it. Where’s Kavita?’ I turned and reached for the kit.
I can put it by the gift box and save someone else the trouble.
‘Why do you always ask a hundred questions before moving?’ he countered, the frustration evident in his tone.
‘Why do—’ My foot slipped. A shriek escaped my lips as I tilted sideways, the kit slipping from my hand.
Then, everything stopped.
Hard chest. Warm hands. An unmistakably fresh and woody scent.
My hands flew out, grabbing Jai’s shoulders for balance. His hands were at my waist, and my chest landed against his as he cushioned
my fall.
We both froze.
My face was level with his collar. I didn’t look up. Couldn’t look up.
Because if I did, I’d have to see his expression. And I already knew what I’d find there. Disappointment. Anger. The look that said I’d confirmed every low expectation he had of me.
‘Careful,’ he said, his voice low.
I forced myself to step back.
His hands stayed at my waist for half a second, probably making sure I was steady, then fell away.
‘I’m fine.’ I bent down quickly, snatching up the fallen materials. My hands were shaking. I straightened and shoved the kit onto the desk. ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, not looking at him. ‘And ... thank you.’
‘It’s fine.’ He cleared his throat and straightened his suit. ‘We need to go.’
I grabbed my phone. He was already at the door.
For some reason, I was hyper aware of his presence beside me.
My mind was racing. How much had he heard? Just the dick part? The whole rant about margins, red pens and feeling scrutinised? God, what if he’d heard me say he hated me?
I snuck a glance at him.
His expression was unreadable. Jaw set, eyes forward, walking as if nothing had happened.
A flush climbed up my neck.
‘Kavita … she wasn’t feeling well. I sent her home,’ he said, his voice neutral.
‘Is she okay?’
‘Yes. Just tired.’
‘Oh.’ This was so awkward.
By the time we arrived at the conference room, every seat but two was taken.
Suraina Mukherjee.
Oh my god. OH MY GOD.
She was here. In the flesh.
Get a grip. Stop making a fool out of yourself.
I slid into the empty chair beside Jai at the end of the long table, still dazed. A man stood near the screen, the first slide of a presentation glowing behind him.
A neat stack of papers sat before each person.
‘We have prepared two pitches for the marketing campaign of this season’s festive line,’ he started. ‘The Last Light’ dominated the screen. ‘The Last Light is a five-day Diwali celebration hosted by a celebrity family in a palace …’
My gaze drifted to Suraina ma’am. Her silver-streaked hair was cropped short. The only make-up she had on was the kajal lining her eyes and crimson lipstick. She wore an ivory chanderi suit and a kundan ring – her signature piece of jewellery.
Her gaze rested on me for a moment, and I dropped my eyes. That was close.
I turned to the screen.
‘… tradition and fashion. It puts us in the centre of cultural aspiration,’ he concluded, looking at Jai hopefully.
‘I love it,’ Jai’s brother, Ayaan, remarked. I recognised him from my interview prep. ‘The Rathods would be perfect for it. They’re celebrities and royalty. Their ancestral palace would be the perfect place to host this party.’
‘Let’s talk numbers,’ Jai said.
‘Of course.’ The man took us through the figures.
‘The idea is good. But I’ll have to be honest – at this scale, it doesn’t align with our budget.’ Jai’s statement fell like a hammer, flattening the room’s optimism.
‘Let’s move on to the next one,’ the presenter said and started a new deck.
‘Virasat’ popped up on the screen. ‘We’re not selling couture. We’re offering legacy.’ The next slide was a picture of an old woman fastening a clasp at the nape of a young woman’s neck. Between them was the fall of a heavy silk sari. ‘Our clothes are designed to be …’
Beside me, Jai flicked through a stack of papers. A stylish Audemars Piguet watch glinted against his tanned skin. His hands were large with veins standing out.
The fall replayed in my mind. The rush of the drop. His strong, steady grip. Fresh, woody scent.