Not Safe for Work

one The City of Schemes

one

The City of Schemes

There’s a special place in hell reserved for people who romanticize Mumbai’s local trains.

As someone who spends close to three hours in them every single weekday, believe me when I say this: there’s nothing dreamy about being sandwiched between sweaty strangers.

Every morning, my commute to work reminds me just how unglamorous this so-called city of dreams really is. This morning was no different.

I tightened my fingers around the slick metal pole to steady myself, trying not to dwell on the sweat from the myriad passengers that coated it.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, silently cursing the straps of my sandals digging into my upper heels.

Around me, bodies swayed with the train’s motion, heads buried in phone screens, or the occasional book, looking up every now and then to scout for a seat.

And then I saw it.

A young girl stood up, leaving behind a sliver of space between two passengers. With barely enough room to park half a butt cheek, it wasn’t even a complete seat. But in Mumbai, you took what you could get. I took a step forward just as my phone lit up in my hand with a message from my boss.

Marketing Maestros

@Varun Bhardwaj: Monsoon campaign @ 10 sharp!

I blinked at it, thrown off for half a second, then lunged towards the seat, when—

BAM.

A bony elbow met my ribs with the force of a karate champion.

Pain exploded through my side, sharp and electric.

By the time I recovered from the jab, the aunty beside me, a deceptively delicate-looking woman in a flowy saree, had stolen my non-seat.

She didn’t even spare me a glance, eyes already closed in smug satisfaction.

God, I hated this city. I had survived a lot in the three and a half years I’d been here.

Brokers who charged two months’ rent as brokerage and then ghosted me, HR managers who imposed pay cuts in the aftermath of Covid-19, pitching it as an opportunity to foster a ‘growth mindset’, and autorickshaw drivers who laughed in my face when I asked them to drop me back to Andheri.

But nothing—nothing—compared to the sheer brutality of fighting for a seat in the ladies’ compartment of a Churchgate Fast at peak office hours.

By the time I made it to the office, I was bruised both in body and spirit. So, I headed straight to the only person who could cheer me up.

‘That’s it. I’m quitting and booking my tickets to Mussoorie tonight!’ I announced my exit strategy as I entered the conference room.

Tanya, the only employee there, looked up from her laptop and clicked her tongue. ‘There’s no way I’m letting you leave me alone here. Besides, we both know you’d get bored in your hometown within a week of your return,’ she countered.

Tanya was my work wife. She reminded me, at least twice a day, to stay hydrated, defended my honour when I got caught up in office politics and brought me her mom’s special misal pav whenever I was feeling more homesick than usual.

The two of us had joined Jharokha, a homegrown lifestyle and decor brand, exactly three and a half years ago.

As a part of our orientation, we’d spent three long, mind-numbing days together, watching countless PowerPoint presentations, enduring corporate sermons on preserving Indian craftsmanship and learning unnecessary details about every single product in the brand’s catalogue.

That was enough to trauma-bond us for life.

‘I would not,’ I said, collapsing into the chair across from her. ‘I would wake up to birdsong instead of construction noise, go out for morning walks without the fear of falling into a pothole and spend my evenings reading in peace.’

‘Liar. You’d call me in four days, crying because you miss the chaos and can’t find good sushi.’

‘I mean, yeah,’ I said, sighing. ‘But, at least, I’d be crying in a fuzzy sweater.’

Tanya grinned. ‘You always think you’re a mountain girl until you actually go back and your mom starts asking you when you’re planning to settle down.’

‘Ugh, stop. I’m traumatized enough already.’

She laughed and leaned back in her chair. ‘What was it this time, though?’ she asked, cocking her head to the side.

I stole a glance at the digital clock hanging above the huge flat screen TV. The morning meeting would start any minute now. We did not have the time to discuss the many failings of Mumbai’s infrastructure.

‘The commute, man. It was extra shitty today,’ I said, without offering any details.

What would I tell her anyway? That I got body-slammed by an aunty because my stupid brain got distracted with a campaign idea that popped up the second Varun’s message came in?

‘Tell me about it!’ Tanya groaned, before launching into her own horror story from this morning’s local train ride.

This was one of the things she and I continued to bond over—our shared misery in commuting to and from work.

Her family lived in Thane, a solid one-and-a-half-hour train ride from our office in south Mumbai.

If only our houses were in the same direction, we could’ve commuted together.

That would have made the whole ordeal slightly more tolerable.

I shifted in my chair, half-listening as Tanya ranted about how a TC had fined her for not renewing her first-class pass, which had expired yesterday.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, my half-baked idea was still poking at me.

It was pointless though, since no one in these marketing meetings ever cared about what I had to say.

The conference room felt stuffy, but I didn’t bother to switch on the air conditioner.

Once the rest of the team arrived, they’d turn the room into the North Pole anyway.

Outside the glass walls of the conference room, the office was finally beginning to hum with morning activity as people greeted each other after the weekend, catching up around the coffee machine.

‘Fined for being one day late. Like I’m some petty thief.’ Tanya huffed, pushing her glasses up her nose.

I offered her a sympathetic nod just as Varun strode in, his laptop, encased in a sleeve, in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other.

‘Good morning, ladies. Where’s everyone else?’ he asked, making his way to the head of the table.

Tanya and I shrugged in unison, and he raised an eyebrow before pulling out his phone.

‘If the two women who live in the suburbs can be here on time, so can everyone else,’ he said as he typed away on his phone.

The two of us looked at each other, exchanging furtive eye rolls.

It’s not like he’d have the guts to call them out on it.

Varun was the third marketing head we’d worked under at Jharokha, and by far the most conflict-averse.

To his credit, it was this tendency to avoid confrontation at all costs that made him more agreeable in this office’s delicate ecosystem.

A ding immediately went off on both Tanya’s phone and mine.

Marketing Maestros

@Varun Bhardwaj: Are you guys coming???

Five minutes and a few lukewarm apologies later, the remaining members of the marketing team had joined us at the table.

‘So!’ Varun began as he got up, uncapping his whiteboard marker with a deliberate flick. ‘What have you guys got for me?’

Around the room, people were still settling in, not quite ready to talk shop. Saloni was scrolling on her phone. The two content writers, Nitya and Ajay, were busy whispering to each other. Arvind was fidgeting with his backpack, and Inayat was stifling a yawn.

When no one spoke up, Varun scribbled the words ‘Monsoon campaign ideas’ on the whiteboard, as if the act of writing it down would automatically draw out inspiration.

Saloni looked up from her phone and propped her chin on her right hand. ‘We could do a monsoon sale.’

How original, I thought, but said nothing.

As the person responsible for driving revenue via our website and marketplaces like , Saloni was obsessed with sales.

Valentine’s Day Extravaganza. Holi Special: Buy 1 Get 1.

Diwali Dhamaka. Festive Feast. Christmas Treats.

She pitched them for every campaign, and more often than not, got her way.

The fact that hosting a sale was the lowest hanging fruit, as far as ideas to drive up sales were concerned, didn’t bother her one bit.

She was only worried about meeting her targets; creativity could go take a hike.

I leaned back in my chair, waiting for Varun’s response. Would he push for something better or would he cave?

He wrote down the words ‘Yet another sale’ and a few of us let out a light laugh. Saloni remained unbothered.

‘How about something new, guys? Something fresh, current …’ he snapped his fingers, his gaze shifting around the room, urging someone to come up with an idea.

The AC was now on full blast, and I shivered in my plain spaghetti top and long skirt.

I reached into my handbag, pulling out a cotton scarf to drape over my bare shoulders.

Tanya, who had been quietly observing Varun, spoke up.

‘We could partner with an influencer to do a comedy sketch around Mumbai rains and subtly incorporate our new home decor range,’ she said, hooking her laptop to the HDMI cable.

Tanya was a social media manager at Jharokha, which was a 24/7 job. Even though I was pretty sure she made more money than me, I did not envy her.

‘Good Homes partnered with Khushi Bhatt for their latest launch,’ she said and played an Instagram reel on the TV.

‘Cute,’ Inayat said after the snappy, bite-sized video had ended. Saloni shot her an unpleasant look just as Varun added ‘Influencer partnership’ to the board.

‘Jiya, how much would it cost to get someone like Khushi on board?’ Varun spoke loudly for Jiya’s benefit—she had joined the meeting virtually.