Chapter 28
I had put in my papers at Morning Herald a month ago; the intervening four weeks had flown.
I had met with my editor right after I left Andrew’s apartment. It was a difficult conversation. I told him I was looking for a change, that I wanted to move to a digital platform, which was no longer the future. I couldn’t tell him the truth, but I wasn’t lying either.
He was shocked. ‘Why, Myra? Why so suddenly?’
I told him I had been thinking about it for a while. ‘If I don’t take the plunge now, I probably never will,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to regret not having taken a chance.’
Mr Kumar told me Morning Herald had plans to ramp up its digital space, which was why Andrew Brown was hired. He added that the management’s laid-back attitude was beginning to wear on Andrew, too, but they both knew that it would happen sooner than later.
As long as the advertising revenue of the organization kept swelling, we both knew that going digital was a distant dream. Rightly so, maybe.
Andrew, I expect, knew what he was signing up for.
Andrew Brown.
That left-handed strike with my pocketbook bag that sent the keepsake coffee mug crashing to the floor wasn’t my proudest moment, but I liked the result. Maybe that’s why the image of the broken pieces of china kept nudging me. It felt like my heart. Broken.
My eyes had met Andrew’s before I exited his apartment. My stare was unapologetic while his face had crumpled.
I will apologize to Andrew for the damage to physical property, I know that now. A month ago, I wasn’t so sure.
I had floated the idea of moving cities with my father a little after I sent out feelers.
He greeted the news enthusiastically, much to my surprise.
Not only was he willing to move with me, but he was actually looking forward to the shift.
He thought it would be good for the both of us. He asked me why I had waited so long.
When speaking to Mr Kumar, I had weaved that in, too. I said my father would benefit from the move.
I don’t know if it was something I said, in which case I don’t know what exactly it was, but my editor seemed to think this decision to relocate was stirred by my father.
My mother’s death had been reported in Morning Herald; it was a page-one story. It was a horrific accident. If I’m not wrong, MH even carried a picture of my father sobbing at the crime scene. Quite a few of the senior staff knew how badly my father had taken the loss.
Dad may be the reason why my editor accepted my notice without the spectacle that accompanies a shock resignation.
‘These doors are always open for you, Myra, should you change your mind at any time,’ he had said.
As the weeks rolled by, my father’s enthusiasm seemed to deflate.
He was like a punctured tyre now. At first, he suggested that we rent out our place for a year or two.
He even started looking for apartments in Andheri and Vile Parle, which he passed up for a better location in Prabhadevi.
Then, early one morning, he walked into my room to tell me he didn’t want to rent our house.
I understood that because if we leased our place and Mumbai didn’t work for us, or even one of us, reclaiming our home would be a hassle.
He briefly considered letting it out short term – there would be takers given the location – but he backtracked from that, too, saying people would spoil the furniture Amma had bought.
Finally, he said, it didn’t make sense to lock up the house; it wasn’t safe either. He would come with me for a couple of weeks, maybe a month, help me move and then return. That way, I would still have our home every time I was in Bengaluru.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘Andrew is also here. I can call him if I need anything.’
I was sure that once we were in Mumbai, I could convince him to stay longer. An extra month, a year.
I hadn’t told Chhaya that I had quit Morning Herald and was shifting cities.
We hadn’t met or spoken in over a month.
When I made my decision, she was in Delhi, after which her brother had taken ill.
Though we messaged every day, it was mostly me asking about Chetan’s condition and her giving me updates.
I didn’t want to debate my decision to quit Morning Herald with Chhaya. All I needed to stay put was an excuse, and she could facilitate more than one.
I was in my cabin, working on my last weekend edition as Morning Herald’s features in-charge.
I had a piece in it, too. I took a deep breath, exhaling laboriously.
The following week, I would begin handing over charge of the eight-page magazine, which I had given a new look and more weight in my almost seven years in the organization.
So much so that it was the most complete weekend section in the country.
I had spent weeks and months conceptualizing, planning, finding ways to make an already good product better.
Morning Herald sold 30 per cent more on the weekend than our closest rivals.
That’s the kind of popularity the pull-out enjoyed.
I take great pride in that the graph kept rising with me at the helm.
I noticed Andrew walking across the editorial floor.
He had tried to talk to me twice in office after I had been to his house.
The first time I was on a call, the second time I pretended to be on a call when I was actually listening to music on my phone.
He had been coming into work early these last couple of weeks.
He might’ve wanted to talk, but he hadn’t messaged, and I wasn’t meeting his gaze.
Maybe all he wanted was an apology.
I pulled out my phone on impulse and messaged Chhaya. I typed, When’re we going to meet, Bae?
The answer came back before my screen locked. Like right now? You won’t believe it, Bae. I was just thinking of asking if you are free for a tea break just now.
I was on my feet in a flash. I reached for my phone and typed, In Perky Grace in 5. For a COFFEE break.
Meeting your bestie after a longish gap is like changing into clean undies.
We’re not the physically embracing kind, but we hugged this time. Real tight. She had gone through a tough, tough time. I could only imagine what it was like for her, but unknown to her, I had fought a ragged bout, too.
‘How come you haven’t ordered our drinks and found a table?’ she asked after sashaying in only 10 minutes late. She must’ve missed me.
‘You must be craving a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘In the excitement of seeing you, I arrived with only my phone. I was about to head back to get my wallet.’
We laughed and paid, collecting our beverages and settling down in our usual spot in the near-empty café.
‘I don’t mind a croissant,’ she said in true Chhaya style as soon as we were seated. ‘I haven’t had breakfast.’
I picked up her purse and got her the croissant. If she went to the counter, she’d debate on a plain or almond croissant for 10 minutes, and before I knew it, it would be time to get back to work.
‘I’ve something to tell you,’ she said, beating me to the bell.
‘You go,’ I said, laughing.
‘Actually, two things to say,’ she said, wagging her digits. ‘Maybe three.’
‘Spill the tea.’
‘I saw Meena and Ravi together,’ she said, holding my gaze. Then added, ‘They were holding hands and looked quite into each other.’
Chhaya had met a distant cousin the previous night for a business dinner at the downtown five-star, where she spotted the new lovers.
‘Ouch! That was quick,’ I said, laughing.
‘You were faster,’ she came back.
‘This was easy for Ravi,’ I said. ‘He always worried about women hitching their wagon to him for his money. Meena has enough of her own, so they start on level ground at least.’
‘Meena’s father is an IT professional. While I’m sure Mr Iyer is wealthy, I’m not sure they’re quite in the same league.’
A few zeroes more or less. I shrugged.
‘Andrew was also there,’ she said. ‘He was having dinner with two oldish-looking men.’
I didn’t want to think about Andrew’s reaction. It was not my business. I was getting out of this space for that very reason.
‘I’m not sure if the lovebirds saw Andrew or me, but as I exited the place, my eyes met Andrew’s. I’m pretty sure he had seen them, too. Their table was in the centre of the room. It was like they were making an announcement.’
‘Bloody! Reporting from ground zero, where hope was so thoroughly squashed.’
Chhaya laughed, and I joined in her raptures, not quite sure why.
‘And?’ I asked Chhaya, taking a sip of my coffee. ‘I hope you have something more interesting to say than this roulette of friends and lovers.’
‘Well, there’s this guy,’ she said, her face colouring.
‘Now you’re talking…’
Hussain Malik, a Bollywood actor–director was hitting on my friend dearest. He was about 33, a divorcé.
He wasn’t the best-looking man on the planet, not even a sharp dresser, but he was a crackling artiste.
It didn’t hurt that he was an extended branch of the industry’s first family.
They had bumped into each other at the Mumbai airport lounge a couple of months ago.
Chhaya had missed her flight, not an uncommon occurrence with her, and he was early for his.
(I prayed that if he was the punctual kind, that he also be blessed with a lorry load of patience should this dance go into the second song.)
Hussain had approached her, telling Chhaya he knew who she was before introducing himself. They sat together at a long table, shared pizzas and exchanged numbers.
‘This time when I was in Delhi, he came over.’ She took a bite of her almond croissant and looked around her.
‘Because he had work there?’ A question befitting a second-grade first-bencher.
‘No, Bae, to see me!’ my friend said, gulping down her tea to keep from spattering it over me.