After the Storm

by Lakshmy Ramanathan

  ‘Come this way,’ she said beckoning Meenu to a door at the other end of the house. It opened to a flight of stairs going downwards. ‘There is an auto stand next to the entrance door. They’ll charge you minimum to get to the station’, she informed. Then peering at the clock in the hall, she added, ‘I would have asked Rakesh to drop you but he has already left for work.’

  Meenu let out a silent sigh of relief. Running into Usha aunty and her son the same morning would have been a bit too much. She smiled a quick thanks and bounded down the stairs only to come to a toe stubbing halt at the bottom. A plush, swanky looking restaurant stretched out before her lazily, warmed by the fuzzy lights and shades that had been switched on.

  She looked around taking in the smell of freshly brewed filter coffee and fried vadas that wafted in from the kitchens. As she passed by the tables laden with brass plates and tumblers, soft lilting notes of a mandolin filled into her ears. Meenu felt an overwhelming sense of bewilderment. Why did Usha aunty and Rakesh live atop a restaurant? Did they own it? They certainly had access to it! But Padu’ma had only mentioned that they lived opposite the mutt, not above some fancy restaurant. She looked around distractedly until the sound of falling rain caught her attention.

  Meenu checked her phone. It was nearing seven. Enough time to wait out the rains and then make it to work. No point getting wet, not after last time. She drew a chair from the table nearest to the entrance and sat down. There wasn’t anyone around except for two cleaning staff and a security guard outside, and they didn’t seem to mind her being there. She took out her phone and tapped on the business desk’s WhatsApp group. No updates from the other bureaus yet. But that would change in the next one hour.

  She let out a gigantic yawn and shuddered. It came as no surprise that she was this sleepy; she hadn’t come home before 3.00 a.m. even once this past week. Rathore had kept her up, taking her for long drives along the marine drive and kissing her in the company of moody, charcoal-coloured tetrapods that broke the waves hitting the promenade. She had woken up early this morning to wash her hair, blow dry it and pin some flowers to it to blend in with the rest who would gather at the mutt.

  She checked her reflection on her phone. Two almond-shaped eyes looked back, visibly tired.

  With effort, she pulled her notepad out of her bag and went through the notes of an interview with the coast guard office on the condition of jetties lining the Gateway of India. She made a mental note to file the story by evening. Any longer and she wouldn’t be able to make sense of her own scrawling. As she looked up from her notes to watch the rain, she saw a menu card on the table and picked it up. A waiter materialized out of nowhere and took her order for a plate of filter coffee meringues.

  When the meringues arrived, shiny and peaked, Meenakshi wolfed them down, surprising herself. The caffeine gave her the kick she needed and the quick bite whet her appetite for the plate of idly-vada that arrived next. She had no trouble finishing them either. Whether the vada was triple cooked (as mentioned in the menu) or not, she had no clue, but it had been the crunchiest, yummiest she had ever tasted.

  ‘I would like to meet your chef,’ she said with a smile when the waiter brought the bill.

  ‘He is in a meeting ma’am,’ he replied.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ she said.

  The rain had stopped now and it was time to leave but Meenakshi found herself stuck to the chair. Something about the restaurant, and the Ramakrishnans staying right above it, gnawed at her. So when the lone waiter tended to a corner table at one end, Meenakshi slid through the ‘Entry Restricted’ door.

  While one large, thickset chef fussed over his skillet, the rest of the kitchen staff appeared deep in discussion in a far corner. As Meenu inched towards the all-white huddle, she caught glimpses of the man in the middle, his tag heuered wrist and long fingers resting around a mug. Someone in the huddle shifted to the left and Meenu finally spotted him – looking devastatingly handsome as always, with his just-out-of-bed hair and set-for-the-world chin. As he leaned against the kitchen counter smiling and nodding to his kitchen staff, Meenu felt a strange sense of pride watching them take notes.

  The owner-cum-head-chef of Chutneyed knew someone had entered his inner sanctum. He tilted his head just a little bit to spot the intruder. His eyes widened in surprise. But when Meenu gave a sheepish smile, he grinned back broadly. He excused himself from his staff and emerged from the huddle.

  He walked up to her, his eyes taking in hers, pops of honey lined in a shade of emerald. He smiled appreciatively and Meenu felt a deep tug in the pit of her stomach. He looked more rakish than ever, his broad shoulders filling out the low-ceilinged kitchen.

  ‘Hi,’ she said looking up and smiling awkwardly.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said leading her out of the kitchen door and into the restaurant, which was now filling up.

  He stopped at a couple of tables to chat with the patrons; some of them regulars, others first timers. All the while, he held her hand in his till he finally led her to a corner table, partially cut off from view by a large pillar.

  After taking her seat, Meenu could hold her surprise no longer. ‘I didn’t know you were a chef!’

  ‘I didn’t know you would come by today,’ he parried.

  She thrust out her wrist, which now sported the yellow thread.

  He nodded in understanding and then tilted his head towards the kitchen ever so lightly.

  ‘I met your mother. Upstairs,’ she said wondering why she was babbling away something his mother would reveal to him anyway.

  ‘You did?’ he asked, looking genuinely surprised.

  Meenu nodded. What was she trying to do? Win some brownies from him for visiting his mother?

  He gave her the oddest looks but remained silent as a waiter had arrived with his mug of coffee…

  ‘Did you see her peering from the window,’ he asked her once the waiter had left.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  The barest hint of regret flitted across his face.

  ‘Ever since I took over, I am afraid she hasn’t much to do,’ he offered by way of explanation.

  ‘What do you mean you took over?’ she asked.

  ‘Amma used to run a mess here na … along with colonel uncle.’

  Yes she had heard about how Usha aunty had landed in Mumbai with Rakesh (still in his diapers) to serve her father’s friend – a retired colonel from the army – and escaped the pitying and prying eyes of the sambhar mafia on her recently widowed status. But Meenu hadn’t known the colonel and Usha aunty had started a mess.

  ‘Then, why don’t you involve her?’

  ‘Please … she thinks I bastardise food,’ he said blandly. ‘Not that I blame her. I am always dunking dry ice or liquid nitrogen into my dishes.’

  ‘Are you a Blumenthal fan?’ she asked crinkling her nose.

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’ asked Rakesh, leaning back against his chair and leisurely running his eyes all over her. It was clear he was settling in for a long chat and Meenu’s breathing quickened at the thought of that.

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ she replied, trying to sound casual. ‘He is that mental chef, right? Plug in ear phones, listen to crashing waves while eating oysters…’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him.’ Rakesh chuckled.

  ‘Amma watches his shows. That’s how I know,’ she explained.

  When he placed his empty mug on the table, she couldn’t help remarking, ‘I don’t know about the coffee but the filter coffee meringues here are something else.’

  ‘Aaah so somebody enjoyed a nibble here,’ he said, pleased as punch.

  ‘Not so much the bill,’ she replied waspishly.

  Rakesh didn’t appear in the least ruffled. He sank deeper into his chair instead, stretching his lean, long legs under the table, grazing hers ever so lightly. Meenakshi tried to ignore the tingle she felt; the warmth that it filled her.

  6

  As she walked towards the entrance door of
The Daily Times with a faint smile, Meenakshi spotted Rishi smoking, standing next to the receptionist and looking miserable. She walked up to them and plonked herself on the ledge lining the corridor, motioning Rishi to do the same. They sat in silence till the receptionist went inside.

  ‘Call from home,’ Rishi said barely audible.

  ‘What is it this time?’ Meenu asked, unpinning the flowers from her hair. She knew that Rishi wasn’t on great terms with his family. Especially his father.

  ‘They asked me to get a better job. Do something more “manly”.’

  ‘What’s not manly about being a journo?’ she asked her brows knotting.

  ‘They mean a better job, Meano. Bigger pay,’ Rishi replied impatiently. ‘Something that will help me buy a house, marry a girl from a rich family.’

  ‘Why do you need to marry a rich girl if you are already making money?’ she demanded, picking at the flowers in her palm. Rishi couldn’t help but break into a smile. Meano did have a point. For the first time since last night, he relaxed his tightly held shoulders. He would find a way to end his family’s bullying. In time.

  ‘One day, you are going to write an amazing copy and it will make your parents super proud. But until then, God save you,’ she said, her eyes gleaming wickedly.

  Rishi threatened to stub out his ciggy on her wrist. It shut her up immediately.

  ‘You look heavenly by the way,’ he said. ‘full Hema Malini types,’ he added, ducking in anticipation of a rap. Meenu smiled back instead and the two went into the office in better spirits. When she reached her aisle, she settled into her chair as quietly as possible. Her desk head barely looked up and slowly her breathing returned to normal. Months of subservience had finally begun to pay off, she thought cheerily. Around noon, feeling braver, she stepped out for a quick break. Sitting on the ledge in the corridor outside the reception, she started flipping through the photos she had clicked earlier that morning. As she looked at one of the bedecked goddess she realised she had never shown it to Usha aunty.

  She scrolled through her contacts and came to ‘Rake Ramakrishnan’ that she had added in the morning. She smiled thinking what auto correct had done to ‘Rakesh’. She had not bothered to change the typo. She WhatsApped him the picture along with the message, ‘For your mum.’

  She waited for a reply but when none came, she made her way to the canteen surprised and annoyed by the pang of disappointment she felt. She got herself a glass of juice and returned to the Editorial one floor down. Her phone finally pinged.

  ‘Thanks! Amma will be thrilled.’

  Meenu felt unusually pleased. She wasn’t sure why though. She returned to her seat and forced herself to read through the guest column scheduled for the day, working out the pictures that could go with it, but she was distracted. A couple of minutes later her phone pinged again and she found herself clamouring for it indecorously. It earned a frown from the person in the next chair but Meenu barely noticed. There was a notification for one unread message. She opened the chat window immediately.

  ‘Really sweet of you to share the pic,’ Rakesh had remarked.

  ‘Sweet? I will have you know close ones call me Meano,’ she typed back grinning.

  ‘Hahaha :-)’ came the reply.

  Post noon, the pace picked up. Reporters had got their story for the day, some two or even more. The air was relaxed, punctuated by the sound of typing and orders for lunch. All this would change sure as traffic lights by the time it was evening. Something happened in a newsroom when the skies turned inky. Sources ran dry, stories fell apart, officials went off the record, ideas overlapped, ads rolled in or out, and editors sent entire desks into panic by changing the lead. The only people who didn’t appear flustered were those at the front page. To have their content and layout changed till the very last minute – until the page was typeset and released for printing – was something they had accepted as they had the dirty white of newsprint.

  Anybody who had spent time on the front page desk understood its ever changing dynamics. The page spoke to everyone – to a bystander, someone rushing to catch a train and even the policy makers at the top. So come morning it had to carry every game changing news that had broken in the last eighteen-hour cycle even if the electronic and social media had been bleating about it the previous day and night. The reason? India still woke up to a roll of newspaper.

  Meenakshi, who had woken up to an empty house and the prospect of attending a puja, was having an easy day at work. It gave her mind the opportunity to wander over the morning’s events though she was reluctant to examine her own sudden interest in Rakesh. Why now, she admonished herself, when things were beginning to move ahead with Rathore.

  It was then that she saw him enter Mistry’s cabin. She craned her neck to catch his eye but he didn’t look like he had noticed her. Pinky, the entertainment head, strode in next, her lips set in a thin line. Clearly, something was wrong. Within minutes, she could hear them rowing even though she was seated two aisles away from Mistry’s cabin.

  ‘I can’t understand why Night Out is carrying sports stories.’ Rathore was saying in brittle, clipped tones.

  ‘Oh shut up, Rathore,’ said Pinky sounding bored. ‘It’s an interview of Abhishek Bakshi. Where else will it go?’

  ‘On sports! Especially if he is talking about his football team!’

  ‘Bakshi isn’t talking … to anyone,’ she replied calmly. And turning towards Mistry, she said, ‘This wasn’t a free-for-all press conference. I rang him up to ask him about his forthcoming releases when he said his football and kabbaddi teams had been keeping him busy. One thing led to another and I got what I thought was a good story.’

  ‘Tell me again…’ and now Rathore’s voice barely masked the sarcasm. ‘Why would an entertainment supplement get into details of a football team’s grassroots programme?’

  Shahroukh Mistry eyed his desk heads thoughtfully. One wrong word and he knew it would show in the next day’s paper. The pettier a reporter was, the more territorial a desk head, the better it was for the paper. He knew this better than anyone else at The Daily Times.

  ‘If there is confusion over where a story should go, why don’t you two consult with me? like old times,’ he asked cheerily. The two heads stared back at him expressionless until he dismissed them. Once outside the cabin, Pinky quickly strode away. Then suddenly, she stopped and turned around to face Rathore, who had been watching her with scant disregard.

  ‘Don’t think people haven’t noticed the bullshit you carry these days,’ she stated loud and clear. ‘If you have trouble filling your pages, why don’t you use the sailing stories filed by that girlfriend of yours? She works her ass off.’

  Meenakshi gasped, sinking low into her chair. She didn’t know what was more embarrassing. Being referred to as someone’s girlfriend or being recommended for a story.

  Around five, to Meenu’s relief, Chanda came around and waited. Leaning against a desk, she bit off errant nails from the top of her fingers. The constant nail biting wrapped Chanda in the oddest of smells – one that combined saliva with the fruity scent of her perfume. Not that she seemed bothered by it. Meenu looked up and smiled. She half admired Chanda’s ability to not care what others thought of her. It was something she couldn’t get herself to do, try as she might.

  She was so irked by Pinky’s remark earlier that day that she couldn’t get herself to make eye contact with anyone since then. With Chanda by her side, she finally got up from her seat, pocketed her phone and stepped out of the building for a much-needed break. They crossed the road to a chai stand where the two bought a kulhad each and Chanda, a bun maska, which she dipped into her chai before finishing it off hungrily.

  ‘How is it going?’ asked Meenu pouring the dregs of her tea to a street dog that had come sniffing up.

  ‘Hectic. I gave them two stories today. And now they want 300 more words,’ she said rolling her eyes.

  Meenu nodded taking in the information. Chanda’s byline
s always made her analyse her own contribution to The Daily Times. Compiling a story list, scanning agency wires and lining up photos to go on the page wasn’t exactly thrilling. Writing for the sports desk was far more fun but her copies on the latest model of sail boats or condition of jetties rarely made it to the pages. On the rare occasion that they did, they went as 100 word briefs. Meenu knew she didn’t leave home to do this.

  When Chanda and she returned to the office, she mentioned the need to stretch her legs and waved her goodbye. She walked towards the back of her office and leaned against a wall. It overlooked an empty plot separated by a deserted parking lot. The plot often served as a mini maidaan for a game of galli cricket or football. Today, there were a couple of guys playing football. She watched them for ten minutes before taking the long circuitous route back to the entrance of her office.

  She was about to turn the corner when she smelt his cologne. The deep musk mixed with the smell of fresh sweat. He had jogged his way to catch up with her. Holding her by the shoulders and turning her slowly to face him, he said, ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ He then bent to kiss the corner of her mouth, but Meenakshi turned her face away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Rathore asked, surprised.

  Didn’t he realise that half of the office had heard him and Pinky row? That Pinky’s suggestion was embarrassing yet true?

  ‘Are you mad at me?’ he asked. ‘Oh my God, you are! But why? Come on … please tell me,’ he said drawing her closer to his chest making puppy faces.

  Meenakshi’s lips twitched from wanting to laugh out loud.

  Rathore who had been watching her face closely whispered into her ears, ‘We’ll catch up tonight. Let me just take a shower first. Okay?’ So saying he turned around to leave when Meenu who was never good at bolting her thoughts, remarked,

  ‘What Pinky said … it’s true. You don’t use my stories at all.’

  Rathore turned around and looked at her dead still.