one The City of Schemes #2
She was supposed to return to work today, after a week-long holiday in Thailand, but had apparently missed her flight and had been forced to extend her stay by a few days.
Although she had promised to work remotely to make up for this ‘unfortunate delay’, I bet she was still sipping cocktails on the beach.
A burst of noise filled the room as she unmuted herself, while her camera remained switched off. Loud chatter. Laughter. And was that Doja Cat’s new song playing in the background?
‘Sorry, could you repeat that?’ she asked innocently.
Tanya met my eye, lips pressed tight to hold back a smile. I already knew what we’d be gossiping about after the meeting.
Without an ounce of irritation in his voice, Varun recapped the conversation and repeated his question. The man had the patience of a saint—borderline unhealthy, if you asked me.
‘Twenty lakhs, easily,’ she said.
Saloni let out a low whistle, not even trying to hide her satisfaction as she announced to the room, ‘We can’t afford it.’
‘We could always go with a cheaper influencer. Or even a micro influencer,’ Tanya said, swivelling in her seat to face Saloni.
‘Not enough reach or engagement,’ she shot back.
I felt Tanya glance at me from the corner of her eye, silently asking for backup. But before I could chime in, Varun struck the option off the board.
The conversation shifted as others offered half-hearted, first-thought ideas.
A feature in a home decor magazine. A giveaway on social media.
A partnership with a sister brand. All safe, all painfully predictable.
I fought the temptation to give my point of view, even as the bud of my idea started sprouting in my mind.
Who would listen to me anyway? I was just a graphic designer.
The only reason I was even a part of this meeting was because I would need to create visuals to help execute whatever run-of-the-mill idea these folks came up with.
As if he had heard my internal monologue, Varun turned towards me.
‘Kavya, you’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think?’
I swallowed, hating the feeling of being singled out.
‘Uh …’ I attempted to reach for the idea that had teased itself to me, but drew a blank.
Tanya sent an encouraging nod my way.
I closed my eyes for a second and exhaled. ‘I think we are focusing on smaller elements instead of thinking of a creative concept.’ I began slowly, giving myself time to piece my thoughts together.
Everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to continue.
‘Rains are such an important part of Mumbai. I’ve never seen any city romanticize the monsoon as much. Why not dig deeper into that and offer stories of real people, real moments, real rituals?’
‘Like what?’ Saloni challenged.
I felt the idea gain momentum as I spoke.
‘I mean, everyone has their own personal connection to the rains. From eating pakoras to sitting by the window with a book, these small, intimate moments define what Mumbai rains mean to us. What if we created a campaign around people’s rainy day rituals?
Real stories, captured in the comfort of people’s homes.
Not just celebrities or influencers, but everyday Mumbaikars sharing what the monsoon means to them—how they make their spaces feel cozy, how they spend the rainy afternoons, what little things make them smile when the weather turns grey. ’
I could picture it so well now: A snippet of a woman sipping chai from an earthen, hand-painted cup from Jharokha’s kitchen collection.
Another shot of a couple curled up on a couch, wrapped in one of our soft, knitted throws, listening to the distant rumble of thunder.
A close-up of two kids making paper boats, their giggles echoing in the room as they sit beside our vintage-style wooden coffee table, the rain softly tapping on the window behind them.
I looked around the room, seeing the curiosity in Varun’s eyes and the spark on Tanya’s face. No one else seemed to care. ‘Okay,’ Varun said slowly, ‘that’s definitely interesting. Let’s play with it a little. What do you all think?’
Arvind shrugged, indicating his indifference.
The content writers mumbled non-committal agreements without looking up from their laptop screens.
Jiya remained muted on the phone. Inayat glanced at Saloni before saying, ‘It sounds great in theory … but aren’t we a little late for something like this?
Monsoons are predicted in less than a month. ’
‘True. We should’ve thought of this way before,’ Saloni added, as if coming up with timely marketing strategies was part of my job description.
I wanted to bite back at her. At least I had bothered to think of something new. But she was a few years my senior, and I had no interest in picking a fight I couldn’t win. The idea, like a balloon, started deflating. Everyone started nodding in agreement, the energy in the room slipping away.
‘Maybe we can do this next year?’ Varun said, giving me a small smile. ‘Let’s move on for now. So, what does that leave us with?’
We all looked at the whiteboard, where all ideas had been crossed out, except for one: Yet another sale.
As the rest of the team shuffled out of the conference room, Varun caught my eye and said, ‘Kavya, can you stay back for a minute?’
I sank back into my chair, feeling the familiar mix of anticipation and anxiety that came with these one-on-ones.
The last time we’d had a real conversation, I’d told him I wanted to grow beyond graphic design and move into a more marketing-led, creative strategy role. He’d nodded, said he’d look into it.
Nothing had come of it, so far.
Varun leaned back, giving me one of his patient, managerial smiles. ‘I know things haven’t been ideal since Harsh and Swati left,’ he began, his tone measured. ‘You’ve had to pick up a lot of the day-to-day design work and I understand that’s not where you want to be spending your energy.’
My shoulders tensed, but I stayed quiet.
‘We’re trying to fill those positions, but you know how tricky hiring has been …’
I frowned.
He read my expression and clarified, ‘Graphic designers don’t want to come back to the office after Covid. Everyone’s looking for remote or hybrid setups.’
Well, that much was true. A lot of my college batchmates had moved back to their hometowns during lockdown, freelancing from there. I would’ve done the same if Jharokha had been open to it, but the management here had refused to evolve with the times.
‘I understand, but this is not sustainable,’ I said, forcing myself to voice my concerns. ‘I’m going to burn out if we keep going like this.’
Varun’s eyebrows shot up at my use of the B word. When he spoke next, his voice was careful, calculated. ‘We certainly don’t want that. You are very valuable to the company,’ he said, then added, ‘which is why we’ve found someone to help you out.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. An intern will be joining you for two months,’ he said, beaming. ‘He can take the extra design tasks off your plate, so you can start focusing on the bigger picture.’
I blinked, caught off guard. An intern? That was the grand solution?
Varun continued. ‘He’s from the CEO’s personal network, so you know he’s brilliant.’
Before I could react—or object—he launched into a speech about how even though he knew this wasn’t a permanent fix, it would buy us some time to make the hires.
Plus, it was an opportunity for me to step up, show my leadership skills and prove to management that I was ready for something bigger.
‘You have good ideas, Kavya,’ he said, his gaze sincere.
‘I know you will do well in a marketing-first role. You just have to work with me so I can get you there.’
I knew what he was doing—dangling a carrot in front of me. So why was it working?