by Ira Trivedi
‘Come in.’
‘Hey …’ I said softly, feeling that little tingle in my tummy that I always felt when I saw him.
‘What’s up?’ In the fluorescent lighting of the office he looked pale and tired, but still happy to see me. He got up from his chair and came over to where I stood, bringing with him a strong whiff of alcohol. Without any sort of warning he took my chin in his hand and kissed me. ‘To finish what we started,’ he whispered in my ear.
I just looked down, not sure what to say, not sure if I could say anything considering my heart was stuck deep in my throat.
Wedding Woes
Saturday morning found me on a bus from Manhattan to Edison, New Jersey, which reeked of chicken curry gone bad, to attend my mother’s best-friend’s daughter’s mehendi and sangeet ceremony.
My mother had been pestering me to go to this wedding since the day I arrived New York, and I had firmly decided that I would in no circumstances go. But, inevitably, like it was always the case in my pathetic life, I gave in to my parents. I fished out the clumsy, heavily embroidered, very shiny and utterly distasteful salwaar kameez my mother had forcibly packed in my suitcase. To add to my sour mood, I discovered that the previously-perfectly-fitting salwaar kameez was now so tight that I could barely get the zipper up. My phone rang; it was my mother for the fifth time in thirty minutes.
‘Yes, Ma?’
‘Beta, don’t forget to wear the bangles and a bindi, okay? It is very important.’
‘Um, yeah …’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had given the glass bangles to Martha who had found them utterly fascinating, and that I couldn’t find the packet of bindis. ‘Mom, please, I’m running really late, I’ll miss this bus at this rate.’
‘Okay, okay … beta, you hurry up now … Aunty is looking forward to having you,’ she said.
I couldn’t understand why she was so excited about the prospect of my attending this idiotic wedding.
I grabbed the matching glittery purse which she had packed and sprinted out of the room to catch a cab to Port Authority.
After three long hours on a smelly bus with dubious air-conditioning, I found myself at the home of Sharmila Aunty and Mahesh Uncle.
‘Beta, you are looking too beautiful,’ said Sharmila Aunty pinching my cheeks as she had done ever since I was a child. ‘Arreji,’ she said calling out to Mahesh Uncle, ‘have you seen how beautiful Manju’s daughter has become? And so tall too. Iski shaadi next hai!’ She winked at me, and turned to greet another Aunty–Uncle pair.
I went around saying my namastes to the various familiar faces, though I couldn’t recall any names. Everyone was just Aunty or Uncle to me, just as I was ‘Manju and Shyam’s daughter’ to everyone. I got the same ‘Kitne bade ho gaye ho, beta, kitne lambe ho gaye ho’ routine everywhere I went. It was like being transported to India with the ranks of bejewelled aunties, chubby uncles, skinny girls, pimply boys and boisterous children.
I shuddered, anticipating a very long and tedious evening ahead. My New York investment-banking life, though only a few hours away, seemed part of an alternate universe. As I often did these days, I thought of the magical, elegant summer ball cast in classy hues of pastel, the graceful people, the exquisite food, and envisioned myself in my lovely gown with Jonathan by my side … Only to be jostled back to reality—the brash, gaudy colours, the boisterous crowds, the heavy, spicy scents, the organized chaos. Out of sheer boredom I found myself at the mehendi station where I got a swirl of henna applied to my palm, immediately regretting the hasty decision when I found myself handicapped till the smelly henna dried.
‘Riya, is that you?’ I heard a voice from over my shoulder. I turned around and came face-to-face with Gag-me-Mohanty.
‘Oh hey … how are you?’
‘I’m great yaar, so good to see you here. Aunty told me that you might be coming,’ he said with a big goofy smile.
This was a set-up! My mother had known that this loser was going to be here and had coaxed me into attending the ceremony. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen for her manipulations. I was fuming, but at this point there wasn’t much I could do about it.
‘Um, yeah,’ I said, smiling awkwardly and wondering if I should tell him that he had a small piece of what I suspected was a samosa stuck to the side of his face. He looked like such a clown in the gaudy studded kurta he had paired with ill-fitting jeans and loafers which looked like orthopaedic shoes. The thought of marriage to this man almost made me want to throw up the chaat that I had just consumed.
‘You know I called you and emailed you, but I didn’t get any reply from you, so I was wondering where you were and if you were fine.’
‘Um, sorry Gagan, I just got really busy with work. You know how it is …’ I said sheepishly.
‘Arre, don’t worry about it. I totally understand. All of us bankers go through that! Come meet my friends, other investment bankers in the Indian community. Network, network, network!’
‘I, uh …’ I desperately tried to think of an escape route.
‘Oh come on, Riya … Indian bankers are our best allies, trust me. They are our desi yaars and there is also one very senior VP from BofA that you must say hello to.’
I didn’t have much of a choice but to follow the dweeb. The only other young person I knew here was Puja, Sharmila Aunty’s daughter who was covered from head to toe in mehendi and barricaded on all sides by a gaggle of aunties. I could either hang out with the dweeb or with the aunties and uncles who would pester me about my own marriage plans. Six torturous Gag-me-Mohanty-filled hours later, I found myself watching dance performances on the deck that had been transformed into a makeshift stage. Friends and families performed skits and danced to Bollywood songs, depicting how fortunate the meeting of Puja and Akshay, her husband-to-be, was, and how they magically fell in love and how destiny brought the star-crossed lovers together.
From what my mother had told me, I knew there was not much of a love story here. Puja was a doctor. Akshay was a doctor. They met on shaadi.com, they Skyped for two weeks, talked on the phone for two weeks, met twice, their parents met once, and three months later friends and family were invited to witness a modern-day ‘arranged marriage’ in the charming town of Edison, New Jersey, where they would probably spend the rest of their lives together.
Finally the heavens had mercy on me and the clock struck 8 p.m.—time for my departure back to the city. I politely said farewell to all the nameless aunties and uncles, gave a kiss to a visibly drunk Puja (who had been smuggled shots of tequila all evening long), and hugged Sharmila Aunty, promising to come for the wedding on Sunday (not!). At least the dweeb was a gentleman and dropped me to the bus station, but not before extracting a promise to revisit his favourite ‘restaurant’ in Manhattan over the weekend.
As the bus lurched towards the city, a flood of relief washed over me. Ah, Manhattan, my saviour, my guardian angel. The world that I was leaving was the stuff that my worst nightmares were made of. There was no way that I was going to lead some standard, mediocre life in Edison, New Jersey, with the likes of Gag-me. I had to break free from the shackles of my parents, of the world that I was born into and their expectations. I had to create something of myself. I had to be an investment-banking success. I would be an investment-banking success. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life as a nameless, faceless aunty cooking chapattis, rearing children, and dancing to raucous Hindi music at weddings. No, I would rise to I-banking greatness. I would lead a cosmopolitan, jet-setting, adventurous, glamorous life that no small-town Indian girl had ever dared to before. I would wear the most expensive designer gowns and go to elegant, high-profile balls in the city, where I would sip on fine wines and enjoy beluga caviar. Quiet tears flowed down my cheeks as I imagined a pathetic life in suburbia and with every tear, I became stronger and more determined than ever before to bag that job-offer at the end of the summer. Come what may.
Weekend Blues
The event of the past week h
ad pushed Timebom down the priority list, though it had been hovering at the back of my mind for a while. I had been scheming and plotting ever since I had been put on the deal team. I knew that if I didn’t act soon then I would lose out on the opportunity. I wasn’t sure if I would hand over the documents to an increasingly impatient Sachin, but I did want to have them in hand, just in case. I wasn’t in any position to ignore the rare opportunities that were coming my way these days.
I chose Sunday for execution. I came in early, at 7 a.m., in order to avoid the afternoon analyst traffic. I was nervous and edgy, and the fact that I had spent all night anxiously going over my plan repeatedly, only made it worse. For a change Lady Luck was on my side, and I found myself in an empty analyst pen in a deserted office. Since I was on the deal team I had been given the password to get into Timebom. Once I accessed the documents I could do one of three things—save the information on a USB stick and print it out elsewhere or email it to myself and print it out elsewhere or print it out at the office. Anything done on the Internet could be traced, so email was out. Printing history was recorded too, so that was out. Given my situation the safest option would be to save the info externally and print it out from the Staples next door but I was sceptical. The tight security system of these computers probably recorded everything saved externally. How would I explain myself if someone found out? What business did I have saving Timebom on an external disk? As I nervously mulled over which path of deception to take, Kurls walked into the office. This was the last thing I needed right now.
‘Hey,’ I said, feeling anxious and quite annoyed. Kurls was always creating trouble for me.
‘Hello Riya.’
‘What are you doing in the office this early?’ I asked.
‘I just had some finishing touches to put on my project. We have such little time left,’ he replied. He didn’t appear to be suspicious, but why would he come into the office so early, that too on a Sunday morning? Did he maybe suspect something? Could this be one big conspiracy to get me kicked out?
I was panicking but I tried to sound completely normal. ‘Tell me about it,’ I laughed nervously and stuffed a fistful of Gummy Bears into my mouth.
I heard the printer groan, squeak and begin production. Kurls rose from his chair and went to retrieve the documents. Out of the blue, it struck me! I knew exactly how to proceed and in a matter of nano-seconds all nervousness dissipated.
‘Um, Ker-Lih, would you like some Gummy Bears?’ I said holding out the packet in front of him.
‘Sure. Thanks!’ No one, not even the disciplined Kurls could resist Gummy Bears. ‘Here, take the whole thing,’ I said placing the booty on his table.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Totally! I have another bag,’ I said cheerfully.
I waited ten minutes before I turned to him again, ‘Hey, I’m having trouble printing from my computer, could I try printing from yours? It’ll take a second.’
‘Of course. Just give me a quick minute to finish this.’ He tapped away furiously on his keyboard. ‘All yours,’ he said and got up so I could take his seat.
I was very relieved when he wandered away from his station. Quickly, I went into the Q drive, entered the Timebom file, entered the password that I now knew by heart, selected the document I needed as well as a few others to make it less suspicious, and hit the print button. I heard the printer groan into action and watched jubilantly as the precious document materialized in front of my eyes. I grabbed the still-warm papers and carefully stored them in a folder. Phew, the dirty deed had been done. And all I’d needed was some quick thinking and a packet of Gummy Bears. I gave Kurls a bright smile when he returned and settled back into my seat to cool down from the high-intensity adrenalin rush of a few minutes ago. In the warm afterglow of victory, I impulsively sent Sachin an SMS:
GOT THE DOCS.
Seconds later my phone rang, but I ignored it.
AT THE OFFICE CAN’T PICK UP.
He replied instantly:
GOOD JOB!! CALL ASAP.
I stayed the next two hours because I didn’t want to appear sketchy and also so that I would be eligible for a free SeamlessWeb lunch. Since Kurls and I were the only ones in the pen, I didn’t have to worry about odour. I ordered my favourite weekend meal of rajma-chawal and dug into the soul-soothing, nerve-calming food a few minutes later. The large afternoon meal had made me groggy. I said bye to Kurls and left the office, carefully stowing the papers in my bag. I hopped into one of the black cars waiting by the curb that we were allowed to take home on the weekends and sank into the luxurious leather backseat.
Seeing the CIM folder in my bag, I felt a twinge of fear. It had been a mistake telling Sachin that I had the docs, especially because I wasn’t sure I was going to hand them over. I regretted my impulsiveness. I really did want to help Sachin, he was my friend and I owed him for getting me the job. And there was that little chance that he might just be able to pull some strings and get me the offer I needed desperately. Given our situation it was probably wise for me to take this chance. It’s just that I was too much of a wuss. After all there was a remote possibility that I would be caught and if that happened, consequences would be dire. I was in a quandary and I wondered what I was going to do.
It was 10 p.m., and I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I had been in bed since I got home a little after three in the afternoon and I couldn’t figure out if I was extra-tired, or just extra-lazy. All I knew is that I felt like shit and I didn’t want to get out of bed … ever. My feelings of glory and victory had quickly turned into feelings of guilt and I began questioning if what I was doing was worth it. Having ignored all ten of Sachin’s previous calls, I had finally answered the phone. In our brief conversation, he told me that he was proud of me, and that I wouldn’t be sorry that I had done this. To make matters worse, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jonathan. I was dying to see him, and kept wondering if I should call. He was the one who had sent me the last email, so was it my turn now? The signals that I got from him were terribly mixed. I knew he liked me, I could tell … but why wasn’t he more aggressive about it? Why wasn’t he asking me out for dinner or drinks, or even a simple coffee? Was he hesitant because I was much younger and a mere intern in the group? Maybe he was just waiting for the summer to be over, so he could make all the proper moves. Maybe I was just being stupid and paranoid and over-thinking things the way girls tended to do. My phone lay on its spot on my side, like an old, faithful dog. What the hell, I thought to myself, we only live once. I punched in his number which I knew by heart and hit the call button. The phone rang a few times and I reached his voicemail.
‘Um … hi Jonathan, it’s me, Riya. I was in the area for dinner, and I was wondering if you were, um, free for a drink or something by any chance. Um, call me back soon. Bye.’
I immediately regretted leaving him the message. I sounded like a total idiot, and now he had me on record. Why hadn’t he answered? Was he avoiding me? I told myself that I was being silly. This was dinner time, he was probably out somewhere. He would call me back.
An hour later and still nothing. I lay in bed, contemplating changing into my pajamas and calling it quits for the night. Then again I wasn’t particularly sleepy. It was only eleven, early by Manhattan standards. I heard the sharp clipping of high heels in the corridor and the bedroom door opened with a creak. Martha. She looked sharp in a grey office dress and reeked of alcohol.
‘Hey roomie, how are you?’ She was as chirpy as ever, even though she was coming home from the office on a Sunday night. I wondered where she got the energy from.
‘Tired.’
‘Oh you poor baby, hard day at work?’
‘You can say that.’
‘Awww. I met this totally hot banker at this bar right now, and he’s invited me over. I just want to get beeeuutiful and then I’m outta here.’ Her iPhone broke out into a popular hip-hop ringtone. ‘It’s banker boy calling, shit! I better get myself together!’ She slipped out of her cl
othes, totally naked except for her stilettos, grabbed her towel, gave me a flying kiss and ran into the bathroom. I got out of bed, walked over to her desk and picked up her phone. With great difficulty (damn these iPhones) I punched in Jonathan’s number. It rang a few times, and just when I thought it was going to go on to voicemail, he answered, ‘Hello?’ My heart did a back flip, and I quickly hung up. Maybe he was working or in the middle of an important work dinner, I consoled myself. He was terribly busy, being a VP and all that. I couldn’t possibly expect him to take calls at my convenience … My heart sank as the painful truth began to set in. Maybe he just wasn’t that into me. Maybe for him, I was just a stupid, silly intern.
Just when I was on the brink of tumbling into darkness, I was saved by the bell. The call was from an Unknown Number. Oh my God, maybe it was Jonathan. I tingled with nervousness as I answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey Princess.’
‘Um, who is this?’ I asked, confused. Jonathan never called me ‘Princess’.
‘Who do you think it is?’ said the caller with a laugh.
‘I … I’m not sure.’
‘After all these years, you don’t recognize my voice?
‘Uh … who is this??’ Now I was really confused and kind of sketched out.
‘It’s Ross, Princess.’
‘Oh,’ I said, unable to keep the disappointment at bay. ‘Hi Ross, how are you?’ I asked feeling dejected and rejected.
‘Perfect as always, baby girl. Listen, I was just in your hood for dinner. If you’re around, I was wondering if you want to grab a drink.’
‘Um …’
‘Come on, girl, I don’t bite. How about a farewell drink before you get back to Hell-esley?’
Damn it! I might as well. I couldn’t believe I was spending potentially my last few nights in Manhattan in bed. It was beyond lame. True, it was Ross and he was sleazebag, but it was better than the alternative, smelly PJs and a grimy bed that I’d been lying in for seven hours straight.
