Civil Lines

by Radhika Swarup

  I was quiet for a minute. ‘But still, it’s Pradeep’s wedding.’

  ‘We’ll send him off with a nice gift. And his bride will come and live with us. We show them in a million ways that they are part of our family. Not attending one little ceremony doesn’t change that.’

  There was no time to argue. There was no time to feel aggrieved. There was no time, seemingly, to sleep either, as the end of November approached. Supplies took longer to arrive than we had anticipated, causing delays with the printing of the magazine. And once it was all finally done, once the product was finished and ready for delivery, one of the shopkeepers in the market had second thoughts about stocking the magazine.

  ‘Think about it from our perspective,’ the proprietor told me. He was the bulbous-nosed son of Mr Seth, the old shop owner. We had been going to the store for decades, when the old man sneaked us sweets from a jar while Ma shopped for supplies. It was Mr Seth I had spoken to about stocking the magazine, and he had scolded me for the formality of my request. ‘Aren’t you like one of my own?’ I hadn’t seen him in years; my trips to Delhi had been infrequent and strained. Whatever time I had, had been spent with Ma and Maya. The thought of visiting Mr Seth had never crossed my mind, and there he had been when I had gone to speak to him, angry at the thought he would refuse me. ‘Of course we’ll stock our children’s magazine. We’ll give it pride of place. See if we don’t.’

  It had been a few months since the arrangement was settled, but a week before the magazine was due to arrive at the shop. Mr Seth’s son, Vivek, cornered me and led me to his desk at the back of the store. He asked his assistant to fetch me a drink. ‘Coffee, tea, coke, whatever you please,’ and when I refused, he launched straight into his speech. ‘You see,’ he said. ‘Any space we are allocating to you means that other magazines are missing out.’

  I thought for one delirious moment that he had been hired by an existing magazine to stop our launch. But then he spoke again, his face gleaming with regret. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t make sense not to allocate shelf space to magazines that sell.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I know,’ he interrupted. ‘You’ll sell. But you see, we get paid commission for every magazine we stock.’ He looked at me sympathetically, as if embarrassed by what he was saying, but his eyes were hard behind his glasses. ‘And, you know, if I think of how many copies of Femina we sell in a day, or of Outlook, then it’s hard to justify stocking a brand new, unheard of little start-up.’

  I nodded. Mr Seth had never mentioned being paid for stocking the magazine, but the economics of the transaction were clear to me. I had seen the old man’s offer as a favour, but in Vivek’s telling, his father’s kindness was leaving the family out of pocket.

  ‘Mr Seth,’ I said, but Vivek waved his hands in the air.

  ‘Papa,’ he said, ‘is not running the business anymore.’

  My heart sank. I had thought of appealing to Mr Seth, but it was clear that power had changed hands. Vivek did not favour the idea of stocking The Satirist for free, but I looked at him as he sat behind his father’s old desk, and said, ‘Your support would mean so much.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘It would be fantastic to see…’ he paused, as if trying to place a name, then said, ‘your magazine prosper.’

  ‘I wonder,’ I said. I saw Vivek’s attention waver. There was a queue building up at the till, and he looked to rise. But I wasn’t willing to give up so easily, and I said, ‘Perhaps I could interest you in our sponsorship package.’

  He smiled at a customer, then nodded briskly at me. ‘Sponsorship?’

  Nothing had been planned. We faced the classic beginner’s conundrum: we would continue to lose money until we secured advertising, and we would be unable to secure advertising until we had secured our readership. The spreadsheets I built and maintained in London had felt a little premature with the magazine, but as Vivek leaned forward, his forehead glistening with perspiration, I said, ‘As a gesture of goodwill, we were thinking of offering our key partners free advertising in the launch issue.’

  He stroked an imaginary beard. ‘Key partners, you say?’

  ‘Absolutely. All those showing faith in us by stocking us in our infancy. And all local businesses we are proud to promote.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Vivek said. I could see him picturing the advert. Him in a photo in front of the store, and a gushing paragraph in praise of Seth Supplies. And I, I realised, would have to be the one penning the gushing paragraph. ‘Hmm,’ he repeated, and as someone else approached him, he waved them unceremoniously away. ‘You say free sponsorship is only for the launch issue?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘And The Satirist is a monthly magazine?’

  I smiled. ‘You’re a tough negotiator, Vivek,’ I said. ‘How about I offer you free sponsorship for the first three issues?’

  He thought hard. His hand rose to his forehead, then to his slicked-back hair. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said benignly, ‘You make it free advertising for six months and we have a deal.’

  Vivek’s deal disturbed all our planning. The maiden issue was already printed and ready to be delivered. Pradeep had figured out the route he would take to ensure delivery of all the copies took place in a single day. Maya was unhappy with the new arrangement I had brokered, and suggested returning to Vivek with an alternative proposal. ‘Tell him these copies are ready,’ she told me. ‘We can give him free sponsorship in the next issue.’

  Maya took seniority over me in editorial issues. In fact, she and Sonia had taken charge over most of the running of the magazine as our marketing efforts hadn’t yet kicked in. I was sure she expected me to agree with her plans, but I shook my head. ‘We do that,’ I pointed out, ‘and we risk Vivek not stocking the magazine at all.’

  ‘Mr Seth…’

  ‘Even if he does stock it, who is to say he doesn’t let it languish in a bottom shelf? We need him on our side, Maya.’

  Tasha-di spoke up. ‘We can’t renege on Siya’s promise,’ she said with finality. ‘We need as much goodwill as we can get.’

  ‘But the magazine is ready. It would take a complete change in layout to incorporate ads.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I replied. ‘If Seth Supplies gets free advertising, we really should provide it for our other stockists.’ Maya threw her hands up, and I carried on, ‘That makes our job easier, don’t you see? We’ll just print out a four page spread on advertising.’

  Maya was still frowning, but Ajay snapped his fingers. ‘That’s doable,’ he said. He picked up a large sheet of paper, folding it in half in demonstration. ‘The ads go on these four pages, and the rest of your layout is not impacted.’ He looked at me to be sure that his understanding was in line with my plan. I nodded, when he asked, ‘Do you want to have the ad pages as a detachable insert in the middle of the magazine?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. I could see Maya and Sonia were still not on board with the plan. The concept of a detachable insert would please no one, Vivek least of all. ‘No,’ I said again. ‘I thought we could remove the staples from the magazine, placing the adverts right inside the cover.’

  ‘So they’re the front and back pages of the magazine?’ Ajay asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘We could place them in the centre, but then I worry Vivek will think they’re not prominent enough.’

  ‘But,’ said Sonia, and I spoke over her.

  ‘I know it’s disruptive,’ I said, ‘But it seems the least troublesome way of getting what everyone wants.’

  ‘Actually,’ Ajay said. I didn’t quite trust his good offices, but he picked up a magazine from a stack, and proceeded to pry out the staples binding the paper. He worked gingerly, as if removing a splinter from a child’s finger. We loomed over him, watching as he retrieved the two metal implements from their place. ‘There,’ he said, holding up the staples triumphantly, ‘All done.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Maya. ‘I still think we should only offer advertis
ing from the next issue onwards.’

  ‘Siya’s right,’ said Ajay. Tasha-di added her assent, and he said, ‘It’ll be done in half a day. Let Siya finalise her sponsorship.’ Maya cackled unhappily at the word, and he repeated, ‘Her sponsorship, and I’ll make sure the magazines are ready for their new pages.’ He saw Shanti pause before the room, and said, ‘I’m sure this lovely lady will help me. I’ve forgotten her name for the moment,’ and as I barked, ‘Shanti,’ he held up his hands. The staples let out a small glint. ‘Shanti,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m bad with names. But you’ll help me get the magazines ready, won’t you?’

  Shanti nodded, Maya did too, although reluctantly, and it appeared we were all finally set.

  Now that I had broached the topic of advertising, I began approaching our remaining stockists, and extended them the offer we had made Seth Supplies. There was a hotel in the vicinity, and I spoke to them too about sponsorship. ‘We’re just starting out,’ I explained to the manager, a sleek-haired girl called Puneeta. ‘But we want to support local enterprises, and are happy to offer free advertising for the first issue.’

  We were sitting in the manager’s office. She listened to my pitch, and asked her secretary to bring us some tea. ‘We’re trying to build out brand,’ she told me. ‘I would be very interested in discussing sponsorship. But tell me this,’ she added as I smiled, ‘Do you have a leisure section?’

  The thought of returning to Maya with another layout change didn’t appeal to me. ‘Not for this issue.’

  ‘But it’s something that interests you? A column you could call something like “Delhi Beats”?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. We prided ourselves on our objectivity. I wasn’t keen on becoming mouthpieces for a corporation. ‘Though if I’m honest, I am not sure how comfortable we would be at the idea of placed articles in addition to advertising.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said in a rush. She gulped, smoothing her hair, flashing me a smile, and I realised she was mounting a pitch of her own. ‘My degree is actually in communications. I want to write an article about our bar, and one about our restaurant, sure, but I’m also happy to go out and write about Delhi’s food and culture scene.’

  ‘Well,’ I said slowly, ‘it’s something to consider.’

  ‘I can send you samples of my writing,’ she said. She brushed her hair behind her ears and waited for me to respond.

  ‘I’m sure you’re good at what you do,’ I said. ‘But I’m not sure I can pay you. There’s no money in our budget for additional staff at the moment.’

  Puneeta laughed. ‘I have no plans of jacking in this job. But, if you’re interested, I’m happy to go and check out different restaurants and bars in my spare time. I’ll get fed for free, and I’ll get to keep writing.’ She looked at me, and as I paused to consider her proposal, she said, ‘And after your launch issue, I would be happy to discuss advertising with you. We have some money still to allocate from next year’s budget. We’re very keen to get our brand in front of a wider audience.’

  I inclined my head. ‘We’re very keen to support the local community. I’m sure we can offer you a package your hotel will find compelling. And,’ I added, as Puneeta returned to nervously patting her impossibly straight hair, ‘I’m sure the editors would be very happy to read the articles you have written.’

  We passed Raja Singh the next time Maya and I took our morning walk. He slowed down as he approached us, nodding his neighbourly greeting, and I knew this was my chance to approach him. The plans for the launch party were ready, and though it would be too much to expect him to attend, a kind word, a plug, some advice, an introduction to a friendly influencer, any of these would be welcome. I prepared my opening words: ‘Mr Singh, Sir,’ but he was bending his head, parting his lips in a cursory smile, and moving on.

  My time was up; my opportunity lost.

  Maya must have been thinking about talking to him too, as she nudged me. ‘Siya,’ and I turned. ‘Mr Singh,’ I called as he sped away in the opposite direction. He didn’t hear me, didn’t or wouldn’t pause, and I tried again. ‘Sir,’ I cried more loudly, hurrying after him, ‘Mr Singh!’ and he finally stopped. He turned to look at me, not smiling, more expectant than displeased, and I said, ‘Mr Singh, I believe you knew our mother.’

  Maya had walked towards us, and stood by my side but Raja Singh merely raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sir,’ Maya was saying, ‘our mother was Rupa Sharma.’

  He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He broke into a smile. ‘You’re Rupa’s girls?’ he said, looking at Maya. He turned to me, then back to Maya, his smile warm.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘we’re launching a magazine.’

  ‘Rupa’s girls,’ he was repeating to himself. ‘Did you know that we were great friends?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Maya, ‘yes, Sir.’

  Raja Singh turned towards me, ‘And you’re a journalist too, you say?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ I blurted out, and then, as he waited, I added, ‘Maya is. And we’re launching a new magazine.’

  It all sounded so amateurish, my non-pitch to Raja Singh, the word ‘new’, my admitting to not being a journalist, but he was nodding, he was smiling, and he was saying, ‘But that’s great, girls.’ I wondered if I should talk to him about sponsorship, then decided against the idea. This was a big man; he dealt in life-changing sums. Maybe as we began to establish ourselves I could ask him for investment, but in the meantime, there was no point asking him to shell out a few thousand rupees to support a start-up’s print run.

  The phone in Raja’s tracksuit buzzed, and he turned to leave, but I said, ‘We have a launch party in a few days. We would be honoured if you were to attend.’

  It was an audacious request. He was reaching out for his phone, he was answering it, but he nodded at me. ‘Send the details to my house,’ he was saying, and then he was turning, and heading off back to his day.

  I looked at Maya, who seemed as stunned as I felt. ‘So,’ I asked, ‘did that really happen or did I just dream it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We walked back home, full of ideas we were unable to articulate. We were stunned by our encounter with Raja Singh, unable to believe his graciousness, and unwilling to trust he would attend our launch. ‘But what did he say?’ I kept asking my sister, and she kept answering with the same phrase: ‘I don’t know.’

  The procurement of the sponsorship required more interaction with Ajay than I had counted on. Most of the sponsors were small enterprises and requested us to supply the wording for the ads. Several requested proprietor photos, and Ajay pointed out his skills extended to photography.

  We were five days away from the launch event. I had intended to go to the shops that needed photography to take the requisite photos, but Ajay began to talk about pixilation and the optimum angles for shooting photos. ‘Did you know, Siya,’ he said. He came towards me, his breath reeking of smoke. I found him most afternoons in the courtyard at the back of the house, a cigarette in his hand. ‘This will kill you,’ I would say, and he would raise his hand in salute.

  ‘Siya,’ he was saying, and I stepped away from him. ‘I studied photography at college.’

  Tasha-di spat out her tea mid-sip, then set to coughing loudly.

  Ajay nodded. ‘I was rather good too.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Tasha-di. She had wiped off the tea from her mouth, but I spied a trickle on her clothes. I rose to fetch a tissue, but she gestured for me to remain seated. ‘That maybe you take Ajay along for the photos.’

  ‘I’m sure…’

  She cut in. ‘It’ll make everyone’s life easier.’ She looked at Maya and Sonia. ‘We’re running out of time, and it helps no one if you have to return to the shops to take new photos.’

  Maya looked up. ‘Yes,’ she said, as Tasha-di sat back in her chair. ‘For heaven’s sakes, just stop bickering, the both of you, and go get the photos. Your sponsorship deals have already caused enough chaos.’

&n
bsp; We went then, Ajay and I, early the next morning. We started at Seth Supplies, where Ajay asked Vivek to arrange himself in various poses in front of the shop. The shopkeeper was asked to squat, to bend, then to stand one-legged, all in search of the perfect angle. Vivek complied, eager to see his photo in the magazine, but as we left, I asked Ajay, ‘Were all those acrobatics necessary?’

  ‘What acrobatics?’

  ‘Come on.’

  He laughed. ‘The man almost put a halt to the magazine.’ I smiled, and Ajay said to me, ‘I’m famished. I skipped breakfast to make it over at this ungodly hour.’

  I looked back at Seth Supplies. ‘Do you want to pick up a snack from there?’

  ‘No,’ he grinned. ‘I don’t think young Mr Seth is going to be in the mood to see me anytime soon. But I quite like that little canteen thing at the start of the market. Let’s just stop there.’

  I checked my watch. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll be fast,’ he promised. He didn’t wait for my response, walking towards the restaurant, and after waiting to see if he stopped, I followed him. We were seated next to a pair of local workers, who assumed Ajay and I were on a date, and immediately began to make eyes at each other. Theatrical winks followed, and many knowing nods of the head, and if our neighbours’ intention was to be subtle, they failed miserably. I grew uncomfortable, looking around for the waiter, but Ajay seemed to relish my embarrassment.

  ‘I will always remember today,’ he said, leaning forward on the banquette and reaching his hands across the table. I leant back, and he added, ‘This is our very first meal together.’ The workers gulped down their golgappas, and as another coughing fit ensued, he smiled contentedly. ‘This,’ he said, an eye on his two victims, ‘is the happiest I have ever been.’

  A waiter set down two menus in front of us, and I rushed to order. ‘I’ll have a fresh lime soda,’ I said. ‘We have a lot of work to do, Ajay. I’m sure you’ll want to order quickly.’