Chapter 29
It was early on Saturday. The office was empty, save for the cleaning staff. The heavy scent of phenyl, frenzied physical activity and occasional chatter notwithstanding, there was a serenity about the space that is otherwise alien to a newsroom.
I couldn’t quite recall if, in all my time in Morning Herald, I had ever been in office on a Saturday morning. Maybe once. I had drifted in not fully awake, waited for the pick-up to drive me to the neighbouring district for an assignment.
Saturdays were light, the perfect time to clear my cabin. I didn’t want to run into colleagues, one of them in particular.
I hadn’t yet broached the subject of the broken keepsake mug with he who cannot be named. I wanted to apologize. I would message him perhaps.
I had carried bits and bobs of my belongings each day when I swiped out, making the job of leaving my professional habitat easier on myself. Still, I needed two nine-by-six inch packaging boxes, which would be filled with books, papers and photo frames.
I had a month left of my notice period, but I wasn’t required to come into work.
It was an in-between time, something like the midi dress of the eighties, not too short, not too long.
A demure calf length that covered good legs.
I couldn’t join my new workplace, but I wasn’t needed in my current job either.
I could ‘chill’, some of my colleagues had told me rather enviously.
Watch Netflix and do nothing. Let’s just say, I’m not a midi dress type of gal.
My farewell party was for later in the month, close to my last non-working day.
I would have to come into office a couple of times before that, but those visits didn’t call for me to sashay across the editorial bays.
Hereon, I would be dealing with HR only.
The lines were drawn, and I would be an outsider soon. I had chosen to be, I reminded myself.
As I went about picking up the pieces that made this cabin Myra’s, I felt my heart sink.
Morning Herald was more than my workplace.
It wasn’t my home – I had one – but it was a friend.
A breathing, feeling person that had embraced me at first, giving me shade, and then schooled me.
It’s not that I never had a bad day here.
I had plenty, but pretty or piss-poor, it took me along from one hour to the next.
There were always stories to write, work to edit, pages to make and deadlines to meet.
The cycle was compelling. It calmed my nerves, healed my wounds and showed me how to carry on.
In my early years, I relied on the pace of this place – a sturdy four-storey structure with its admin, marketing, editorial and executive floors – to give a rhythm to my life.
Its lights might’ve dimmed, but it never slept.
There was comfort in that wakefulness. The day began slowly but hit a captivating crescendo with the advancing hours – when you wrestled and adjusted and came up with hair-raising headlines that stood on four to five words.
It’s what helped me take my father’s hand in mine and keep us going at a time when I couldn’t afford to miss a step.
Looking back, I made mighty decisions, I dealt with things well, and that’s why I was able to trudge along hand in hand with ticking time.
It was definitely me more than Morning Herald, but in this newspaper, I had an ally.
I could lean on its walls. A living, breathing creature, I referenced as ‘it’. With love.
I was given this cabin two years ago. I remember the excitement bubbling within me when Mr Kumar handed me the keys. ‘Our youngest cabin crew member,’ he had said, softly adding, ‘The promotion to features editor will come soon.’ It didn’t, not that it bothered me.
It was a bare room with a table and two chairs. The two-seater sofa with green upholstery came later, helping me transform it into my space.
‘Too cluttered,’ my mother might’ve said, swelling with pride.
My back was against the rear wall of my cabin as I slid down to roll out the bottom drawer.
I was at odds with the world. I had sent a coffee mug crashing to the floor this morning.
I told my father it had slipped from my hand, but that’s not what happened.
It wasn’t my infamous left hook either, but I had looked at the red-orange bits of ceramic and wondered if that was me.
I apologized to my father.
I forced myself to take a deep breath. I exhaled.
That’s when I caught the white of Andrew’s tee. He had his back to the office. He was looking out at MG Road, perhaps enjoying the view from his perch. Tall trees. Traffic. More wheels, hardly rolling.
He turned; our eyes met. He was walking to my cabin.
I was on my feet. I threw whatever it was I was holding in my hand into the carton. It crashed.
Andrew knocked but entered without waiting for me to respond.
I nodded. He wanted to say something; it was in his expression.
‘I spoke to Hari Rao. He called me to his place, summoned me,’ Andrew said a little breathlessly. ‘He told me he knew why I had returned to Bengaluru – to claim my share of the crown.’
I felt the air leave my lungs; I was without words.
‘He said, “Be sure, young man, that is never going to happen.”’ He was reciting Hari Rao’s words, his accent, too. I don’t think he was doing it consciously.
I sank to the floor. ‘Did you tell him how and when you found out that he was your grandfather?’
Andrew shook his head. He was on the floor, too, facing me.
‘Did you ask him about Noelene? What went wrong between them.’
Andrew looked away. He didn’t need to answer that question.
I took a deep breath, I exhaled. Andrew did the same, his nostrils flared.
Who is Andrew’s father? I squashed the question quickly, hopefully for the last time. Queries can cut, bleed you to death.
If there was a name on any document of his, Andrew would’ve followed that lead, crawled to the ends of the earth if he had to. I knew the boy, I know the man. Andrew was given his maternal surname, just like Sarah Ann Brown before him. Perhaps.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He was on his feet, and I followed suit. ‘For my mistake, for what it cost us, what it cost me.’
I felt the first tremors of a tempest blowing within me.
‘It was a… mistake. It has destroyed me,’ he said before turning around.
I watched him leave my cabin. Shoulders slumped, head down.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to his retreating frame, ‘sorry I broke your mug.’
I took two steps to my chair and spun it around. I settled into it slowly, resting my back and then my head before shutting my eyes. I had made the right decision. I had to leave.