by Sheila Kumar
‘The Pothole Project is going great guns,’ Rohan Varma informed them. ‘They are running the Worst Pothole Picture competition from tomorrow. The response from people has been tremendous.’ He beamed at them, then quickly scowled. ‘But no need to feel too puffed up, guys. Editorial is pretending this was their own masterstroke, the idiots. We have a subscription target riding on this campaign and the moment we cross it, we’ll tell them what is what!’
He paused for breath, then suddenly turned to her. ‘Nina, you fell into a pothole, didn’t you?’
‘Well, I didn’t, the front wheel of my car did,’ she murmured.
‘Don’t be pedantic,’ Rohan told her impatiently. ‘What I think is, we must capitalize on it. Let tomorrow’s City edition carry a hair-raising account of all you went through, a first-person account. With snapshots.’
Leena snapped, ‘Rohan, I somehow don’t think Nina had the time or the inclination to take pictures of her car in the pothole.’
Her words were water off Rohan Varma’s back. ‘Of course, I know that,’ he glared at his wife. ‘What I meant was, we could get a snap of a car that looks similar to Nina’s in a trough similar to the one she fell into and…’
Nina switched off and threw a smile at Leena, who shrugged in exasperation. Rohan had scented a new angle to the Pothole Project, and he wasn’t going to rest till he had explored every angle to it. The project had given India! an edge over their rival, and Rohan wasn’t going to be caught napping. As he repeated ad nauseam to his team, there was no room for complacency in the Circulation Wars.
As the meeting wound up, Leena moved over to Nina and said, with a perfectly straight face, ‘I’m getting Rohan a gift for his birthday which I think he will love.’
Nina raised an eyebrow, to which Leena said complacently, ‘I’m getting him a plaque that reads: Quantity over quality. Always.’ Both women broke out laughing. A couple of colleagues joined them, and was told about the gift.
One of them grinned. ‘I’ve got a better line for that plaque: Let’s move downmarket. Now.’
But the quality of the debate didn’t improve upstairs, as Nina discovered when she went upstairs later in the day, to give the copy editor contact details of the people she had profiled in her piece. Virtually all of editorial was crowing at another paper’s temporary misfortune. India!’s rival paper had published some very risqué photographs of an up-and-coming film actress, who had then promptly sued them. The India! Op-ed page writers were busy composing a holier-than-thou edit piece lamenting the lack of ethics in today’s media. The paper would leave no stone unturned to close the circulation gap with their rival who still led by a considerable margin, in the state.
No one for a moment talked of the inevitable consequences – in the form of lawsuits – when newspapers published salacious gossip and tried to pass it off as quasi-news. So many libel cases piled up in the legal cell of this and other dailies only because of the near libellous things they published happily, without any qualms whatsoever. What was worse, Nina noticed, was that everyone on the second and third floors really believed that their paper pushed no boundaries, that by bowing to the demands of the public, they were tastefully sensational! Then again, maybe it was good that everyone collectively laboured under this misconception; it gave them the motivation to do what the paper demanded of them without too many misgivings.
Sid, the crime reporter, had a different take on the matter, though. ‘Why was Tappy wearing an outfit so damned revealing if she didn’t want to be clicked by the paps?’ he demanded in an offended manner of Nina, for all the world as if she had been Tapasya Roy’s dress designer or PR agent. ‘Her boyfriend must have given her hell after the photographs appeared, and now she’s pulling a Sati Savitri on us.’
Nina was cordially teased about crossing over to editorial with this, her third article for India!. ‘Has RE offered you a job here as yet?’ asked one of the copy editors and Nina grinned, saying, ‘Not yet. I’m still waiting.’
She looked up to see Alan beckoning to her from inside his cabin and made towards his office.
‘What were all of you talking about?’ asked Alan, with a gleam in his eye that told her he knew just what it was they had been talking about.
Nina met his eyes with a limpid look. ‘Oh, we were just discussing whether sensationalism can be finessed,’ she said keeping a straight face.
Alan Pereira fell into the trap. ‘Of course it can,’ he told her seriously. ‘That’s what we are,’ he said insistently. ‘Tastefully sensational, I mean. Our Page Three pieces are all about fun parties, rock concerts, art gallery openings, and suchlike. We don’t run a boobs and bottoms ticker; we just carry pics of glamorous people wearing glamorous clothes and looking…’
‘Glamorous?’ Nina suggested tongue-in-cheek. ‘And, Alan, no one says boobs and bottoms any more. The term is…’
‘I know what the term is, woman. I didn’t want to embarrass you.’ They shared a smile of perfect understanding before Alan continued, ‘Samar isn’t here. He had to…’
Nina cut in quickly. ‘I don’t want to know, Alan,’ she said, happy to note that her voice remained even.
Alan stood there for a full minute, his mouth open. His eyes met hers searchingly. Then he closed his mouth and said, ‘What happened, Nina?’
‘Nothing,’ Nina told him firmly. ‘It’s over. I have to move on.’ She didn’t realize how telling her use of the words ‘have to’ was. Even as she was cringing inwardly at the possibility of having to say more on the subject, Alan said on a slightly grim note, ‘So be it. Have you given Sharma all the info he wanted on the Chinese article?’ And Nina accepted the change of subject with gratitude.
It wasn’t that easy to fob off Leena and Mini, though. They were in the café, sipping hot and fragrant filter coffee, and the conversation naturally turned to Samar.
‘It seems Mrs Jamwal, his aunt, has taken ill, and he has rushed off to Delhi,’ Mini told Nina. ‘Did he tell you when he’ll be back?’
It was a casual question but Nina’s response had both the girls dropping their jaws. ‘I didn’t know he was away. And I don’t know when he’ll be back. Samar and I, we are over.’ Nina actually managed a wan smile for effect.
The questions followed quick and fast. Nina didn’t reply, she kept smiling, till Leena said awkwardly, ‘Okay, Mini, we need to back off. Let’s not pester the girl.’
Mini ignored Leena and sat forward, arms resting on the table top. Her eyes were intent. ‘What happened, Nina?’ she asked.
Nina took a deep breath. ‘It was going nowhere,’ she said, and her listeners winced as they heard the note of desolation in her voice. ‘I think it was always casual where he was concerned. And I don’t do casual too well. So, for my self-preservation, I decided to end it.’
Leena and Mini sat digesting this bit of information. Then Leena asked, ‘But does Samar know?’
‘No. He will, though, as soon as he returns to Bangalore.’ Nina strove for a light tone. Polite reserve, something that came naturally to her, was the only way out of this.
Later that night, with the midnight blue silk curtains drawn, Nina Sabharwal sat at her dining table, staring down at her cellphone. There were four missed calls from Samar, calls she hadn’t responded to. There was one text message which just asked ‘???’ She hadn’t responded to that, either.
She needed to gear up for when Samar would be back. Because somehow she knew he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer all that easily.
•
Samar came into the office three days later. He had tried calling Nina from the airport, but she hadn’t replied. Something was definitely wrong but he wasn’t too worried. He’d set everything right once he met Nina. Fortunately, this was not a girl who pulled drama into their relationship. She was calm, she was cool, she was self-contained.
The first chance he got, he went down to sales and marketing, and there she was, looking absolutely gorgeous in a shift dress the colour of her eyes.
She was in Rohan Varma’s cabin; Samar bit back an oath, he would have to handle this carefully. Rohan was such a gossip. All he needed was to know that Nina hadn’t been taking Samar’s calls, and he’d go to town with that titbit.
Rohan looked up and saw Samar. ‘Hello there, HB Singh,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Or are your heartbreaking days over?’
Samar looked at Nina. She was refusing to meet his eyes, putting away some papers into a folder. He waited patiently. Suddenly sensing something in the air, Rohan Varma too, looked on silently.
Eventually Nina looked up, straight into eyes the colour of molten caramel. Summoning all her composure, she smiled pleasantly at Samar Singh. ‘Hello, Samar,’ she said, her tone matching her smile.
‘You didn’t take my calls,’ Samar said pleasantly enough.
‘No,’ Nina replied steadily, holding his gaze, ‘I didn’t.’
There was a tense moment, then he shrugged and cracked a smile at the watchful Rohan. ‘Not the time or the place, huh?’ he asked the other man, and Nina marvelled at his self-composure.
Rohan was momentarily thrown but picked up his cue and said a trifle over-heartily, ‘I guess. Did you want something, Samar?’
There was a wry twist to Samar Singh’s lips as he replied, ‘It will keep.’ And he left the place.
THIRTEEN
IT HAD BEEN EASIER for Nina to stick to her resolution of ending things between them when Samar hadn’t been around. Then again, any fear she might have had of him trying to engineer meetings turned out to be unfounded, and she didn’t know whether to be sorry or glad about that. A couple of days passed with no calls or text messages from him, and a bit to her aching heart’s dismay, nary a sight of him, either. But she had known this was how it would be; Samar wasn’t the type to keep at it if he didn’t get a response of some kind.
And then, along came the weekend and with it came the annual India! conference. Last year, it had been held in Goa; this year, it was up in the Nilgiris, in Coonoor, a lovely small hill town. Nina had been up there earlier on a fleeting visit, and looked forward to spending some more time in the green environs of the Blue Hills, as the Nilgiri ranges were called.
HRD had made all arrangements for travel and accommodation in their usual meticulous fashion. Some of the senior staff were driving up the hills from Bangalore, an easy seven-hour drive through a national park, and then up the pin curves of the Western Ghat roads. Alan told Nina she could go with him in his car but she declined, just not up to further discussion about Samar Singh and herself. Alan Pereira might think he was the soul of tact but he would end up bruising Nina’s already fragile nerves. It would have been better if Sita was coming along but she wasn’t. ‘Sit around while you guys talk shop non-stop?’ she had asked Nina with some asperity, and Nina had laughed.
So Nina flew to Coimbatore with many of her colleagues. Coimbatore, a small bustling town in the foothills, was stiflingly hot but as they drove up the hills in the fleet of air-conditioned coaches provided for them, the landscape changed dramatically. The tropical forest, known as shola in the local parlance, grew gloriously wild as they made the climb – eucalyptus with mahogany and myrtle trees looming in the lower reaches, pine and acacia making their appearance as they gained height, the undergrowth a sprawling shrubbery full of giant fern, holly, moss and lichen. This being September and the ‘second season’ in the hills, the flowers were out in full splendour – mallow, daisies, red hot pokers, thick bushes of yellow gorse and broom, violet and scarlet salvias, the glorious morning glory twisting itself around trees and stone revetments.
Just like the first time she had visited, Nina couldn’t quite believe that this was a piece of hot, tropical India, this rolling range of hills with a perennially cool wind blowing, with green grasslands stretching out as far as the eye could see, fat white clouds billowing low in the sky, old stone cottages and manor houses with names like McIver Villa, Crookson’s Folly and Glenlivet. The main town of the Nilgiris, Ootacamund, was no longer a charming place, having succumbed to tourist marauding ages ago. However, Coonoor, about twenty kilometres away, still retained something of its old world quaintness.
The India! staff from all over the country were put up at a large resort, The Croft; the senior and mid-level staff in lovely wooden cottages, the rest in well-appointed single and double rooms. The Croft was tucked away in a fold of some foothills and accessed via a lovely long drive hedged on both sides by flower beds. The grounds had rows of poinsettia trees, wave upon wave of scarlet that met the eye most pleasingly.
The moment they got off the coaches, the eucalyptus-spiked air hit the city dwellers like a dose of an exotic pick-me-up. This is just what I need right now, thought Nina. A break from Bangalore. If only Samar Singh wouldn’t be attending the conference. Then again, editorial was holding their meeting separately, so with some luck, her interaction with him would be minimal. A little voice inside Nina whispered, yes, but just seeing him will be painful. She tried her best to ignore the voice. She was getting better at ignoring that pesky little voice.
Nina had expected to share her cottage with Mini but surprisingly, she was the sole occupant of her circular hut, with its polished wooden beam ceiling, old wardrobes and cheval mirror, four-poster bed and a bathroom that was basically a glass enclosure on all four sides. The lush vegetation that grew outside the cottage was literally crowding two sides of the bathroom, the giant monsteras seemingly tapping at the glass wall, and Nina idly wondered if passing frogs and suchlike would play peeping Toms.
They were all to meet for drinks and dinner in the open air platform just below the reception hut, but that was still some time away. Nina decided to go for a walk, pulled on a windcheater and retraced her path out of the resort. It was going on five o’clock but there was still a lovely filtered light over the hills and valleys. Just past the resort gate, she picked up a companion, a large shaggy black dog that fell into step beside her, occasionally throwing her a smiling glance. Nina loved animals, they had had a Labrador back in London during her teen years, and she took some kind of comfort in the fact that this dog wanted to go on a walk with her.
Hedged on both sides by a thick profusion of lantana bushes bearing a thickly clustered collection of white, pink, yellow and orange blooms, the lane looped and wound its way past shops selling cheese and chocolates, a tailor’s establishment and a wool shop. Nina stopped to stare at the different skeins of coloured wool in the shop window and Blackie stopped obediently alongside her. She really ought to get her mother some wool from here; Anne was an enthusiastic knitter of stoles, mufflers and cardigans galore.
It was well after an hour of brisk walking that Nina and the black dog turned back. The streetlights slowly came on, and faint wisps of mist drifted across from the hill opposite. Blackie stopped at the resort gate, wagged his tail in goodbye and refused to come any further. The nip in the air had intensified into cold now, and Nina wondered where the dog slept but was forced to head back to her cottage. The walk had really done her a lot of good, she felt energized and well prepared to face whatever the evening had in store for her.
Tomorrow would be the formal dinner for India! staffers; tonight was a casual event. Nina decided to wear a long dress in pashmina wool; it looked elegant and kept her toasty too. The dress was in a deep emerald shade which served as a striking foil to her auburn curls, making them gleam when they caught the light. She had managed to get a pair of stiletto heels the exact colour of her dress, and now she regarded the strappy footwear with approval. She remembered reading that a woman would never look like she had fallen apart completely if she was wearing a good pair of shoes, and the truth of that struck her forcibly now.
Nina locked the cottage door behind her and went to look for Mini’s room. Her best bet would be to ask at the reception, and accordingly, she headed there. As she stepped into the large room with mullioned windows and a fire crackling merrily in the grate, she collided with someone who steadied her with firm hands. She looked up an
d met a pair of black eyes that held a startled look which mirrored her own.
‘Manish!’ Nina gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’
The tall and whipcord slim man smiled down at her. ‘Well, well. If it isn’t Nina Sabharwal!’ Then, acquiescing to the question asked by her still raised brow, he said with easy charm, ‘I’m shooting here. Been here for almost a fortnight now, we are just winding up our schedule.’
Suddenly, Nina realized they had attracted a large group of gawkers, most of them India! staffers. Manish Mann was one of the country’s top film stars, trailing just a few steps behind Shah Rukh Khan himself. Manish was one utterly gorgeous specimen of manhood but it didn’t stop at that; he was also one of India’s finest actors. He could romance his heroines and sing love ballads as convincingly as he could get the hankies out when it came to the tear-jerker scenes. He could play army officer, auto mechanic, business tycoon, a loveable tramp, all with utmost conviction. Actually, if Nina thought about it, she herself was a fan. Quite apart from which, she liked Manish Mann.
Nina had met Manish while on her stint at the India! Mumbai office. The local edition of the paper was doing a promotional feature with Bollywood actors and the resident ed had realized that Nina Sabharwal, with her looks, was the ideal person to handle the campaign. What added to her appeal was the fact that she appeared quite unconscious of the impact she had on people.
The ‘Stars for Mumbai’ campaign had been a rip-roaring success, of course. She had lost touch with most of the film stars she had interacted with during the course of the project, but strangely enough, Manish Mann had become a friend. They had met for dinner on and off, usually at a mutual friend’s place given that any public appearance by Manish generated more than a fair amount of hysteria. Whenever he held private screenings of his films for a close circle, Nina had been invited.
Nina was now meeting him after nearly three years. As if reading her mind, he smiled his devastating smile and told her, ‘Good to see you, girl. We have a lot of catching up to do. Let’s go settle down somewhere and have dinner together, what say you?’
