Chapter 2
I swiped in early the following morning. I was to rewrite some data-based copy on migrant labour. It was the best fit in terms of size and content to replace my argument on the case of students turning the street into a stage.
I was vexed at having to put my story on hold. I had done the reference and spoken to a dozen people. I had written most of the feature. But how do you fight an issue, especially when arrests had been made?
‘Myraah…’
The call crashed into my thoughts. It brought down the sheesham-panelled walls that flanked me. I didn’t need to look. Naked without the boundaries of construction or distance.
I recognized the voice. The way my name finished on his lips, a triumphant ‘ah’ rather than an ‘a’. A knock had preceded the call. I knew that too – one firm rap. He was conscious of his surroundings, wary of disturbing people. There was never more than one attempt unless it was an emergency.
I continued to work on my keyboard, which, like me, had known better days. I needed time to fix my expression.
When I looked up, I saw that God had framed the entrance to my cabin.
All 6’4” of him. A black tee that said nothing and blue jeans that had weathered a storm.
I wondered if the blue hoodie, stray filaments of which sat stubbornly on the right shoulder, was draped across the backrest of his chair.
The sharply cut sleeves revealed sculpted, slightly hirsute arms. His lips had broken into a lopsided grin.
No, not cool, I wanted to say, except that I knew that wasn’t what he was trying to convey.
Andrew Brown wasn’t big on appearances. He would never use ‘handsome’ or ‘hot’ or any such lame adjective to describe himself or anyone else.
If he liked something, he served it plain; embellishing wasn’t his style.
Any time I complimented his looks, he’d change the subject even before I could catch the colour that stained his cheeks.
His manners were faultless, but I can’t remember ever hearing a thank you. That’s how he had been, at least.
‘Myraah,’ he repeated as he walked into my cabin, crowding it. That loose-limbed, commandeering gait was engraved in my memory.
He had used my name twice in two minutes, which was already too many times for a month maybe.
The copy I was editing was forgotten; the hole in the page was lost on a screen that was now in sleep mode.
Myra Rai on deadline. That old stubborn she? I had no time for her.
The generous light of the midday sun flooded our editorial spaces, countering the aircon that had doubtlessly been turned to some permafrost temperature.
Andrew put his hand out, and I stood up to meet him halfway. It was a firm grip, just the way I had known it. Slowly, we broke from the hold – me first, I think. I may have fronted a blank look, but I was breathless. I needed water. I was going quietly crazy.
Some not-so-delighted office folks had filled me in on the details of the Andrew Brown hiring.
The chairman had apparently flown to New York with his flunky, Morning Herald’s marketing head, to convince Andrew.
He supposedly had more than one offer from India.
Andrew went with the most lucrative pitch, which was also from the only newspaper deal he had before him.
There was one from a magazine; the rest were net properties.
According to the rumour mill at No. 7 MG Road, he had agreed to move only for a year.
He was testing the waters to see if he could make the switch to a medium that had long been outpaced in the race to grab eyeballs.
I understood why Morning Herald wanted him, but I had my reservations about these postulations.
An institution built on tough-as-nails journalistic principles, which was born during the country’s Independence movement, was looking to sharpen its game. A last-ditch effort to attract young readers before committing to digital space.
Andrew was a political pundit. He’d bring much-needed gravitas to the pages of any newspaper in the country.
But as far as I knew, he hadn’t spent much time in fickle, under-pressure newsrooms, the pillars on which an organization’s reliability rested.
It was where split-second decisions on stance, what to highlight and where to place the decibel were taken in the dying hours of each day.
I had woken up with a start this morning. Was this new colleague actually my Andrew Brown? No longer mine, I reminded myself. Same name, different gents? An imposter, a charlatan?
The man I knew had left home a long time ago.
He had thrived, made a name, but not once in those eight years had he looked back.
Andrew was a sought-after brand in media today.
Why would he choose to return now when he could be anywhere he wanted to be?
It didn’t add up. Just like that decision to leave law and pursue journalism.
‘So, it’s really you,’ I said, my bored smile in place. I’m better at expressions than doing my make-up. My hands shake – 28 going on 98.
‘Unfortunately, it is,’ he said, nodding before turning away. Sometimes, when he gestures, he doesn’t look at the person he’s in conversation with. Reporters do that, too, using the few seconds to take in nuances, but his is an old habit.
Unfortunately, he had said. I was not going to correct him.
His appearance was eloquent. He was taking it all in his stride – the envy-stained synthetic shirts and every pair of kajal-lined eyes that filled the bays of our newsroom.
There were more squeals than story ideas coming from the female section, and suddenly, lipstick-kissed tissues were lying all over the restroom.
‘Back in Bengaluru. Welcome home,’ I said cheerily.
He was watchful. Every twitch of my lineless face had been noted and filed away.
I was taking my time. Andrew knew me as an easy-going soul, and that was all he was going to see.
‘Thank you,’ he said, settling into the lone chair that faced me.
His arms were folded across his chest. His eyes scanned the walls of my cabin.
To his right were three frames of blooms, Tabebuia rosea in yellow and pink and the gulmohar.
My favourites, my pictures. He knew it. On his left was an abstract painting by a friend.
I could see that he was straining his eyes, trying to read the name of the artist. I let him.
He may not have trained as a journalist, but he had learnt quickly.
We sniff stories before we hear about them.
‘I didn’t think I’d be back so soon either. It was always my plan to come back home eventually.’ He spoke suddenly, his eyes roaming the length of my desk. They lingered on the back of a heart-shaped frame that faced me. Only decorum stopped him from turning it around.
I nodded. His vacillating plans were of no interest to me. Not any longer, I told myself.
‘I like the look,’ he said, pointing at my hair, moving his fingers like a pair of scissors.
I had chopped my tresses a few months ago after wearing my hair long for most of my life.
My mother had loved my hair. Hers had been straight and silky; I got my father’s curls, or at least what he once had of it.
I’d never had a hair opinion for as long as Mummy was around; she took care of it.
In the last year or so, I had the itch to experiment.
I coloured it, streaked it in shades of wine, but while it looked great, it had ruined my hair.
My soft ringlets suddenly felt like straw.
‘Oh!’ I flicked aside his compliment. ‘It’s the result of an experiment gone wrong.’
‘Short hair suits you. Not everyone can pull it off.’ His dark eyes sweetened like chocolate. I tasted the compliment. I wanted to do a shampoo ad then and there, but I shrugged instead. It was awkward, in step with the erratic beat of my heart. I hated how my body was betraying me in his presence.
Wait! Did he think I had done this for him? Visited a salon a week ago to give myself a new look.
‘I had it styled a few months ago,’ I said. Why was I offering an explanation?
Andrew’s grin was galling. His eyes danced as they studied me. Dangling filigree earrings, bare neck, just a watch on my wrist.
‘I committed to returning a few months ago, too.’
‘Lucky Morning Herald!’ Damn the teasing.
I consciously didn’t take a deep breath but did the mental equivalent of the same.
I pressed the reset button in my head, not to start again but to take a step back, to relax.
I needed to be in charge. My mind was moving in a hundred different directions.
Was he married? Did he have a family? I crushed the questions before they found a voice to break into the open.
He smiled. ‘No place like home.’
I wondered where he was staying. He had sold his family’s crumbling mansion in the CBD before he left for the United States.
A high-end apartment complex had come up in its place.
I knew he had been offered a flat by the builder as part of the deal, but I wasn’t sure how that had panned.
If he had taken ownership of the 3,000-square-foot facility on offer or if he had banked the equity.
‘I would agree, even though I don’t really know any other place other than home,’ I said.
‘You should try your wings. Test yourself.’ He wasn’t mocking; the tone was encouraging. Still, it wasn’t his place to advise me.
‘Some of us fly in our own spaces, but fly we do.’
‘You certainly are,’ he said. ‘I was reading some of your stuff before coming here. You’ve captured the people’s market, shifted the dialogue back from trends to people. Your crime series is outstanding.’
My smile was slow to show. How long had he been reading my pieces?
Was he surprised when he saw my byline for the first time?
I hadn’t decided on print journalism when he was in Bengaluru, but that was the direction I was headed in.
I had a job well before his blogs struck a chord in influential corridors. Maybe I was his role model.