by Sheila Kumar
SIX
THE VISIT TO JENNY’S gave Nina enough to think about but thankfully she found she wasn’t given too much time to think, what with the rush of new projects that came with deadlines attached. Rohan, Nina and their whole team were kept busy. Not too many evenings went free either; there was a fashion show one evening, on another rainy night, Nina, Leena and Mini went to see the latest Hollywood offering – a racy film on an F1 competition. Mini often managed complimentary tickets for such shows and film previews, and the three of them would usually go; some evenings, Rohan would join them, as would Mini’s husband, Raj.
On the evenings she was alone, Nina tried to work on an article. She didn’t really have much time to indulge in her writing hobby. India! had carried a couple of her pieces, and she wrote for other papers and magazines, too, mainly in the UK. She preferred to steer away from political issues and do feature pieces instead. India was a treasure trove for feature writers; all it took was a perceptive eye and an inquisitive mind. Now Nina was working on a piece about the dwindling Chinese community in Bangalore who faithfully carried on with their traditional industries. The best handmade shoes in town were made by an old Chinese shoemaker who had a team of expert Indian cobblers working for him; the best beauty parlours and noodle joints were almost exclusively Chinese. The next generation though didn’t seem to be too keen to carry the same baton, and thus a legacy was slowly fading.
However, the article seemed irrevocably stuck now because every time Nina sat down to key in her notes, a lean brown face floated through the pages, one eyebrow raised mockingly, eyes gleaming like lava on brown rock, deliciously shaped lips quirked in gentle mockery. Maybe I should go to bed with him and then I’ll find myself cured of this addiction, she thought and then laughed. ‘Wait until you are asked, Nina Sabharwal,’ she told herself mock-severely. And pragmatist that she was, Nina decided the article too could wait even as she waited.
It was a long wait, and she realized Samar was back only when Alan Pereira appeared at the weekly meeting looking smug and announcing that Delhi had given them the green light on the girl child exposé. Samar had been back for three days and had not thought to call her, Nina realized in a wave of dismay. ‘Yeah right, and you were the first on his to-call list in Bangalore,’ she could hear Jenny’s dry voice in her ear.
Later that evening, Sita called. Nina had just finished an al fresco dinner with some of her sales team colleagues at a pub down the road. Back home, she had a bath, changed into loose cotton drawstring pajamas and a string vest, and settled down to read Tolkien’s trilogy. This was the second time she was reading it; the first time was in high school and she judged it was high time to go back to Middle Earth and its inhabitants.
‘Nina, how have you been?’ asked Sita. She called often and whenever they could, they met for lunch; this time round, Nina realized, she had not heard from Sita since the party at the latter’s place.
After the exchange of news, Sita said, on a note of amusement, ‘I think the rumours linking you to Alan are finally going to die down, much to Alan’s secret dismay, of course.’
Nina’s heart thudded in her chest. What did Sita mean? Had Samar Singh said something to Alan when they’d gone up to Delhi together?
‘Oh, why is that?’ she asked Sita now, in a cautious tone.
‘Because Roma, Alan’s secretary, has left to have her baby and in her place has come the newest femme fatale in town. I met her today and believe me, if Alan had been younger, slimmer and sexier, I’d be a very worried woman. The girl’s a stunner.’
Not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed, Nina laughed. ‘Sita, Alan could be ten years younger, slim as a reed and surrounded by a flock of drooling femme fatales, and even then you wouldn’t be worried one bit,’ she teased Sita, who laughed with all the confidence of one who loved and was loved.
She then said, ‘Alan’s got the two of us silk scarves from that new boutique in Delhi which got so much publicity recently. I know you prefer blue, so I’ve kept the cream one. He didn’t want to give it to you at the office; I’m sending it round to your place now, okay?’
Asking Sita to thank Alan, though she guessed it was the former who had thought of the gift, Nina put the phone down with a sense of anti-climax. Had whatever Samar and she had going between them ended before it had even begun, she wondered bleakly. And suddenly, she found her usual pragmatism deserting her.
Making herself a large cup of strong coffee to drown her woes in, Nina settled down to watch a news programme where the noisy anchor was shouting down each and every panelist systematically. ‘Answer me,’ he’d demand peremptorily and then interrupt the hapless person who had begun to answer him. ‘The nation wants to know,’ he would announce threateningly, then proceed to harangue all the talking heads at one go. Willy-nilly, Nina found herself quite entertained by the spectacle. A little while later, the doorbell pealed. It would be Sita’s messenger with the gift, thought Nina as she went to open the door.
Samar Pratap Singh stood on her doorstep, looking absolutely devastating in formal clothes. He had on a grey suit, a silk shirt the colour of Nina’s eyes and a tie flecked with a gold and grey pattern. He quirked one eyebrow and smiled. ‘Hi, Nina,’ he said, his voice a swathe of honey over granite. Nina shivered.
She took a moment to gather herself. Samar watched her put a hand up to the hair she’d gathered carelessly at her nape and felt his body clench with longing. He’d stopped to say hello to Sita on his way home from dinner, and she had asked him to deliver something to Nina Sabharwal. Sita had pointed out in a matter-of-fact manner that Nina’s place fell on his route home. And Samar hadn’t said ‘no’. He hadn’t wanted to say ‘no’.
Samar Singh had been doing some thinking while he was away from Bangalore and away from Nina Sabharwal. He’d had a short but illuminating talk with Alan Pereira. He didn’t need this complication in his life, he reasoned, even while acknowledging wryly that Nina could indeed prove to be a complication. And so he hadn’t bothered to get in touch when he returned to Bangalore.
Then he had made a discovery. He found Nina invaded his thoughts constantly. Tonight, she looked even more beautiful than he remembered, dressed down as she was. The pale pink tank top she wore exposed creamy shoulders and the beginnings of a cleavage that Samar decided could make his thoughts spin totally out of control if he dwelt on it; he could already feel his body reacting to it. The nape of her neck looked both vulnerable and sexy; he wanted very badly to bend towards it and nibble at her neck, feel the hot shudders run down her body.
Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘Sita sent this for you,’ and proffered the parcel. Nina took it and found herself inviting him in for coffee. Even as he started on a polite refusal, Samar looked into Nina’s eyes, which had turned a shade deeper with emotion, and was lost.
In her parlour, he did not sit, choosing instead to prowl restlessly, picking up stuff, staring at the collection of lithographs of temples by the banks of the Ganges she had hung on her wall, scanning her bookshelves and finally coming to the little marble-topped table on which Nina kept photographs of her family. Picking up a framed snapshot of Nina and her mother outside her parents’ farmhouse, he remarked, ‘You favour your mother, don’t you? She’s beautiful.’
Nina coloured. ‘Well, I do look like her,’ she replied. ‘I think I have inherited my father’s temperament, though. He was a pragmatic Punjabi.’ Their eyes met, his eyebrow shot up and they both started laughing. ‘No, it’s true. He really was a calm man, unruffled by anything life threw at him.’
‘It’s the other way around for me,’ said Samar. Slanting a grin at her, he said, ‘I have my father’s nose and eyebrows but it’s from my mother I have inherited this restlessness and quick temper.’
Nina went into the kitchen to make the promised coffee and Samar followed, propping himself against the doorjamb with characteristic grace. He had shrugged himself out of his jacket, loosened his tie and was now watching her with an un
usually serious expression. It was as if he was in the throes of some silent tussle within himself. There was an undefinable tension in the air. Flustered, Nina poured hot water into the mugs, splashing some on her hand in the process and giving a sharp exclamation of pain.
Immediately Samar was beside here, taking the scalded hand and plunging it in running water from the tap he turned on. After a moment, Nina found her voice and said, ‘It’s okay now, thanks.’
Samar didn’t let go of her hand, holding it tenderly, examining it under the light. An errant lock had fallen over his brow and Nina itched to push it back with her hand. The long, sensitive fingers were smoothing her palm, his thumb almost absently caressing her wrist and Nina felt the familiar need surge to life deep within her. She could imagine those fingers moving over her body, cupping her eager breast, scouting out the hollows and indentations of her torso, moving across the soft skin of her thighs, exploring the core of her womanhood. Despite herself, she couldn’t help letting a moan escape her.
Samar looked up, concerned. ‘Does your hand still hurt?’ he asked.
Nina shook her head but couldn’t trust herself to reply.
Samar looked into her eyes, then asked in a low voice, a muscle working in his cheek, ‘Shall I kiss it better?’
The air immediately grew thick with desire. Nina looked at his mouth and shivered. However, to her intense disappointment, he released her hand and took over the making of the coffee saying, ‘Let me make it, you could use a hot drink more than me right now.’
‘Can you make coffee? I mean, do you cook?’ asked Nina, making a concerted effort to calm down.
He grinned. ‘Don’t tar all Indian men with the same brush, Nina Sabharwal. Some of us can manage very well in the immediate absence of fond mothers to cook us delicious meals, thank you.’ Relenting at her look of chagrin, he said, ‘Actually, I’ve been cooking since I’ve been on my own and that’s many years now.’
His coffee was delicious all right and Nina told him so, at which he sketched a mocking bow. ‘You must come and taste my spinach chicken sometime,’ he said. ‘I like to cook, but my mother belongs to the generation of Indian women who believe that men must stay out of the kitchens unless they are qualified cooks. The irony is, the qualified cooks who run our family kitchens are usually all men.’
‘Is your mother very conservative then?’ Nina asked, then wished she hadn’t. Would Samar think she was showing more than a casual interest in his family, in him?
Samar answered easily, ‘Inside Ma, I suspect there’s a rebel waiting to be released, one who wants to just let go and have fun. Unfortunately, what’s keeping that spirit down is layers and layers of stiff starch. She never ever forgets the dignity owed to her position and never lets us forget that, either.’
Was he being sarcastic? Nina searched his face but could read nothing. He was smiling, his features relaxed.
He put his coffee mug down, got up with lithe grace, went to the small table and picked up a photograph of Nina with Sue. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.
‘My sister Susan,’ said Nina. ‘She’s doing her masters in business administration. In London.’
‘Is she now?’ asked Samar, ‘So is Alan’s son. In London.’
‘Adam,’ Nina nodded. This was it, she decided and continued, ‘Yes, they are at the same university. Sue is engaged to marry Adam.’
Now she had Samar Singh’s full attention. He slowly replaced the frame and looked at her, silently, intently, his eyes unfathomable, his face unreadable. Nina said, in a low clear voice, ‘I’m not having an affair with Alan Pereira, Samar. It’s just that my sister is going to marry his son, and Sita and Alan being the people they are, have already co-opted me into their family.’
Samar walked slowly up to Nina. When he was mere inches away, he stopped, smiled and said, ‘I know.’
She squeaked, ‘You know?’
‘Mmm. Alan told me while we were in Delhi.’
Oh god. What else had Alan told him? Now Samar was even closer. Their lips were just a breath away, she could smell the aftershave he habitually used, alongside that distinct smell which was uniquely his.
He said in a low voice, looking at her lips, ‘This rather changes things, doesn’t it?’
Nina did not pretend to misunderstand just what he was getting at. ‘What about Karishma?’ she ground out.
‘What about her?’ The eyebrow was doing its rapid ascent again. Shooting her a look of amusement, Samar said, ‘You haven’t been listening to the India! gossip, now have you? Karishma is my mother’s godchild, I’ve known her since she was a toddler and I’m very fond of her.’ Here he paused and then said, ‘But she is not my girlfriend. What do you have to say to that, Nina?’ he ended, his deep voice dropping an octave or two.
Nina couldn’t reply, she wouldn’t have been able to utter a word if her life depended on it. Samar was still looking at her mouth, and there was no disguising the hunger in his gaze. Nina swayed towards him, her heart hammering inside her chest.
And then, incredibly, Samar stepped back and shook his head, almost as if he was trying to clear his thoughts.
‘It’s been a long evening for me. I was at a formal do for South East Asian photojournalists,’ he said. ‘I ought to be heading back home now.’
Nina stood still, held immobile by waves of sheer frustration. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ Samar said, moving away.
At the door, he turned, threw a long unsmiling glance at Nina and said, ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ It sounded more a threat than a promise and Nina shivered but with anticipation.
And then he was gone. ‘Damn and blast,’ swore Nina, then gave an unwilling smile. So he liked to play games, did he? Well, this game wasn’t going to be played out the way he wanted it. It was time to start the stalking of Samar Pratap Singh, decided Nina. She wanted him, and like the Canadian Mounties, she would get her man. Giggling at the thought, she took herself to bed.
In the car, driving through streets which had fallen silent, Samar smiled to himself. What was that old adage his grandmother used to repeat so often? Something about the dish becoming all the sweeter with anticipation, if he remembered right.
And it didn’t, it couldn’t come more delectable than Nina Sabharwal. He recalled the way she had looked just now as he left her, her mouth tremulous, her eyes deep pools of sensual promise, her fingers worrying the curls at her neck. Fingers he wanted on his body with an urgency that startled him.
‘All right, Singh, that’s enough,’ he told himself out loud now, his voice sounding strangely loud over the music that was playing on the car stereo. Tomorrow, after all, was another day and Samar could wait until tomorrow and all the tomorrows to follow.
SEVEN
TOMORROW TURNED OUT TO be a rain-laden day. Nina’s car wouldn’t start, there were no auto rickshaws in sight, and by the time she walked into office, the sales meeting was well under way. Rohan Varma shot her an impatient look, Nina smiled apologetically and decided explanations for her tardiness would have to wait.
‘We,’ declared Rohan ominously, ‘are hitting a plateau. No, make that we have hit a plateau. So, okay, we’re still number two in circulation, still number two in sales, but our competitors are increasing the gap between us and them. Worse, those behind us are fast catching up. This is NOT a good place to be at.’ He paused for effect and scowled.
His team knew the score; marketing the paper called for equal amounts of ingenuity and genius, editorial content be damned. In any case, the best journalists now worked for small independent dailies, weeklies and excellent online magazines and thrived on presenting a different point of view. The rest, which was pretty much the majority of their tribe, worked a routine day at the big newspapers and magazines and toed the establishment line. Those who worked for the establishment developed a healthy respect for it. Trouble was, oftentimes marketing thought they were the establishment.
Someone mentioned the girl child campaign and got an earful for her pains from R
ohan Varma. ‘What has that stupid idea got to do with us?’ he demanded of the petrified young thing. ‘Editorial thinks it’s some hugely meaningful thing they have dreamed up.’
He poured some more derision on the campaign, then brightened. ‘Anyway, I hear the project has hit a dead-end. After all the interest Samar Singh’s photos aroused … now nothing. They don’t know how to take it forward.’ He gave a sharp crack of laughter and the others joined in feebly. Nina felt a twinge of regret. Now the project would be just another example of how print media had ceded ground to broadcast and online media, when it came to meaningful issues.
‘Could we have another real estate blitz?’ asked Devaiah in a tentative manner. He was talking of getting realtors to buy the front page of the newspaper for a full page ad that would tout their latest waterfront property or villas inside gated communities. This had been a controversial marketing move back in the day when it first appeared, and had generated much criticism and even confusion amongst readers who liked the day’s headlines leaping out at them – bam, bam, bam – rather than poetic paeans to verdant forests, still lakes and nine-hole golf courses, all virtually at your doorstep.
Here, though, India! was just following the country’s bigger newspapers; they had been the ones who pioneered this trend, and now virtually every newspaper worth its circulation had quickly fallen into place. The ads came first, and then the news. And that was that.
Rohan dismissed Devaiah’s idea with a flick of his wrist. ‘No, real estate has bottomed out right now. We need something better, something that will grab the reader by his ba…eyeballs. Ideas, anyone?’
Nina waited for the first storm of utterly impractical though out-of-the-box ideas to fly and then be ruthlessly shot down by the astute Rohan Varma. Then she floated her pothole idea. She was careful to choose her words though, careful not to sound like she was condemning Bangalore’s roads which were more craters and ruts on wide dusty paths than well-laid roads. Experience had taught Nina that Bangaloreans did not take too well to criticism, however well-meaning, from perceived outsiders.
