The Masala Box #3
My eyebrows shot up. ‘Not even when I called you a dick?’
‘No.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘It’s good to know you have a spine. I need an assistant who pushes back when I’m wrong, not someone who says yes to everything.’
‘Well then.’ I smiled. ‘I think I’m perfect for the job.’
He let out a low chuckle and placed the box of rasgullas in the centre, handing me a dessert spoon. ‘Here’s to starting over.’
I stared at him for a moment, genuinely surprised by how this evening turned out. I never thought Jai would acknowledge his unfair treatment of me, much less apologise for it.
Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought.
I grabbed the spoon. ‘To starting over.’
A sharp ring cut through our conversation. Jai glanced at his phone screen. ‘I’ll have to take this. Please go ahead,’ he said, gesturing towards the dessert before answering the call.
As the person on the line spoke, the ease on his face dissolved. Gone was the earnest, somewhat charming man, replaced by the impenetrable COO I knew.
He swiped a hand over his mouth. ‘Send me a report by tomorrow. I’ll handle it,’ he said in a clipped tone and ended the call.
Even the sweetness of the rasgulla failed to soften the sudden tension in the room.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked softly.
The muscle in his jaw ticked. A storm brewed behind his eyes. ‘Lehenga Bazaar has copied some of our designs.’
‘The karigars,’ I said. ‘It has to be the ones who left.’
‘There’s always something,’ he muttered. ‘Copycats, issues, delays.’ Leaning back, he rubbed a hand down his face. ‘Our lawyers will handle it. It won’t be a problem for long.’
I was still unsure what to say.
He exhaled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload on you. I’ve had a long day.’
‘It’s okay,’ I said softly. ‘You’re allowed to be human.’
He smiled humourlessly. ‘I’m the COO of House of Advani. Perfection is a job requirement.’ He tugged at his tie, loosening it. ‘I’ve been trying to move the company forward, do something meaningful. But every time, a crisis comes up.’ He sighed loudly and ran a hand through his hair.
I leaned forward. ‘Meaningful? Like what?’
He hesitated, and I could see the war waging behind his eyes. ‘There’s something I’ve been working on,’ he said finally. ‘But it’s not set in stone yet, so don’t tell anybody.’
‘I won’t,’ I promised.
‘It’s a new line highlighting Indian craftsmanship by local artisans. Visibility for them, depth for us. I want to turn fading art forms into high fashion, preserve our culture and give back to those who make it possible.’
‘I … wow. Jai, that’s incredible.’ And completely unexpected. ‘This could change the fashion industry.’
‘If I ever get to launch it,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘With all these problems cropping up … the board might start questioning my ability to manage what we have. There’s no way they will back my pitch to start a new line.’ He didn’t sound defeated, only exhausted.
Jai was probably the most privileged person I knew. But looking at him now, I realised that it didn’t equate to having it easy. He was just like the rest of us. A man trying hard to achieve his goals.
‘The board’s going to back you,’ I heard myself say. ‘Your artisan line – it’s not just good business. It’s the kind of thing that puts a company on the map. They’d be idiots not to see that.’
He looked at me like he hadn’t seen that coming.
‘And if they don’t, you’ll figure out a way. I’m sure of that.’
His eyes softened. ‘Thanks.’
Later that night, I lay in my bed, my phone screen glowing in the dark. Rekha’s chat stared back at me, waiting. Over the past two weeks, I had diligently sent her details of Jai’s meetings (thanks to my access to his calendar) and the summaries of the ones I attended. Just data, nothing personal.
My fingers hovered above the keypad as I deliberated over what to write today.
The Jai I spoke to today didn’t sound capable of the ‘little things’ Rekha had expressed concern about. He was protective of the company, not careless with it. His ideas of expansion were careful and meaningful, not reckless.
Rekha believed he was new to the position and was making mistakes out of inexperience. But what I’d seen today wasn’t inexperience. It was ambition. Vision.
And setting aside our friction over the last two weeks, I found him to be hardworking. Intelligent. Dedicated.
I typed down the usual: ‘Meetings and campaign ideas’, then added: ‘He’s planning to start a new line. It …’
This was exactly the kind of information Rekha had asked for. What he’s working on. What he’s prioritising. She’d want to know about this. A whole new line? That was major.
It was suspicious of him to hide it from the board and his family. Right? Or maybe ...
I stared at the blinking cursor.
‘There’s something I’ve been working on. It’s not set in stone yet, so don’t tell anybody.’
‘I won’t.’
He’d trusted me. Opened up about his vision, his frustrations, his dreams for the company. He’d apologised. He’d confided in me. And now I was going to report him to his mother?
I erased the last line and hit send before I could second-guess myself.
The message delivered. The grey checkmarks turned blue.
I stared at my phone, waiting for the guilt to hit.
It didn’t come.
What came instead was something worse: the creeping realisation that I’d just chosen a side.
And I wasn’t sure it was the right one.