‘Hello gorgeous,’ gushed Rathore stepping into their huddle and cutting Mistry short. He had appeared out of nowhere and bent to kiss Meenu on the cheek.
Meenu turned rose-petal pink. And for a moment even Mistry didn’t have anything to say, having suspended what he was about to.
Luckily the owners had spotted their blue eyed boy and beckoned Rathore to join them.
After Mistry had left to get a drink, Rakesh who didn’t appear in the least ruffled said, ‘Is that how everyone greets you? Cause, if it is, I would like to start over.’
‘Hi Meenakshi,’ he said, his voice a low rumble, his chiseled jawline rubbing against the soft ends of her lips.
‘No, that’s not how everyone greets me’ she protested with mock anger, relishing the shiver that went down her spine.
‘Then he must be someone special. I thought you said you didn’t bring a date tonight.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then who is he?’
‘He is the sports desk head.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Yeah, I know … look,’ she said after a pause, ‘I am not even sure where he and I are headed. I am just trying to have some fun.’
‘By hanging out with creeps?’
‘He’s not a creep.’
‘Please! He’s got creep written all over his face. Did you take a look at his eyes? His eyes are sooo hooded. Can never know what he is thinking.’
‘And since when was that criminal?’ demanded Meenakshi.
‘Touche! Someone is quite defensive of Mr Creepy.’
‘Poda loosu,’ she said smacking him on the wrist, which set them both cracking up.
Across the terrace, near the buffet table, Rathore’s eyes narrowed as he watched Meenakshi and her tall friend laugh and touch alternately. He gulped down his gin and tonic and strode towards Meenu and then walked past her. Once he was certain she was watching him, he turned around and snapped his fingers at her.
For a moment Meenu was shocked, then she realised that Rathore must have signalled to a waiter behind her. Both she and Rakesh turned around to check for a lurking waiter, but no, he had beckoned her after all!
Rakesh’s eyebrows shot up. This was no way to treat anyone, let alone a woman. But Meenu shrugged her shoulders and walked towards Rathore gingerly.
Once she reached there, Rathore appeared calm and casual.
‘So how have you been?’
‘Busy…’ Meenu replied in an attempt to explain why she had been avoiding him these past few weeks.
‘Yeah, I am sure,’ said Rathore, cutting in. ‘With all the work you have been doing for Pinky,’ he remarked acidly.
‘What, are you spying on me now?’ asked Meenu exasperated.
‘I have to, especially if you are flirting with random men’.
She flushed but said ‘He is not a random person. And I was not flirting. I was just being friendly’.
‘Know what being friendly is?’ he asked taking hold of her wrist and whisking her away to one of the cabanas on the other end of the terrace. Once they were behind it, Rathore pushed Meenu onto the deck chair and forced his mouth on her. Meenu was taken by surprise and before he could register her protest, Rathore had pushed harder, ravaging her mouth and biting her lower lip. When she had managed to push him away, she could taste blood.
Rakesh who had watched them go behind a cabana had tightened his grip around the glass he was holding. He could barely breathe and contemplated checking on her once Rathore had emerged, and when she herself did, appearing slightly dishevelled. Her fingers were on her lips and she looked around as if searching for someone.
Rakesh started walking towards her and as he neared her, his throat went dry. He saw that her lips were swollen, and worse, she looked like she was about to cry. Just as she spotted him and gave a watery smile, he was accosted by a small, unctuous looking man.
‘The man behind the food!’ he announced. ‘Rakesh isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Come, come, I want you to meet someone.’
Rakesh looked down on the pint-sized man with barely hidden annoyance.
‘Just give me a moment,’ he snapped back.
‘No, no. The owner’s wife is here and she wants to hire you for the karva chauth party she hosts every year.’
‘I don’t do karva chauths or kitty parties,’ he replied in a clipped tone, his eyes still on Meenakshi.
‘Oh you won’t mind doing this one,’ said the executive editor of The Daily Times, nudging him hard towards where the owners and bhabhiji stood.
9
Meenu hurried towards the washrooms, hoping she wouldn’t draw too much attention to herself. As soon as she pushed past the doors, hot, salty tears began to fall from her eyes. She flicked them off her cheeks and went towards the gilded mirror to examine her mouth. Blood was oozing from her swollen, lower lip. She tugged tissues out of the dispenser and dabbed at the wound by peering at her reflection through wet eyelashes.
After making sure her lip had stopped bleeding, she splashed some cold water onto her face. She felt a bit better … but not enough to get back to the party. She knew she wouldn’t last another minute there. So she drew her phone out and booked an Ola, deciding to wait in the washroom. As she tracked the cab to the entrance of the hotel on her phone, she got out and dashed into the elevator across, hitting LOBBY almost immediately.
While getting in, she hesitated for a split second. She had not said bye to Rakesh. But if he were to question her about what just happened, she knew she wouldn’t have an explanation. Not that he would have any such trouble considering he had declared Rathore a creep the moment he laid eyes on him.
But was he a creep? Meenu wondered resting her head against the window of the cab and signalling the driver to start. Well, he had certainly behaved like a jerk tonight. But to be fair, he had never seemed like a man who would rough up a woman. He had always been romantic and demanding in equal parts, but never without her consent. A tiny voice inside her asked if she had been responsible for unleashing this side of him? Unsure about it, she went over the evening.
She clearly remembered the initial gush of excitement she felt on spotting Rakesh and how she had happily shown him off to her colleagues but that was all. She had not flirted. Now if only he hadn’t given her that peck on her cheek. Though, he wouldn’t have if Rathore hadn’t!
And what the hell was Rathore trying to prove by kissing her in front of Mistry? That they were a couple? Hullooo, if he had noticed in the last one month, she had made it amply clear that she was trying to put some distance between them. What part of that did he not understand?
Finally, the cab came to a halt outside her mama’s apartment. Meenu was glad to note that the lights were out and everybody sound asleep. Once she let herself in, she removed her heels and padded through the corridor, crossing the bedroom on the left to the balcony a little ahead on the right. Unlike the small one attached to her mama’s bedroom, this balcony was bigger (4 ft by 7 ft) and she had made it her own sanctuary during her stay in Mumbai.
She switched on the sole light bulb and a small narrow diwan that had seen better times loomed into view. Meenu had added brightly coloured throw cushions the moment she had started sleeping in it. Her aunt had been kind enough to empty and re paper two shoe cupboards nailed above the diwan. It now housed Meenu’s many baubles, scarves, make-up and other accessories. Under the diwan rested two of her suitcases and all of her footwear. A tall, wooden coat rack stood at the end of the balcony, from which dangled bags, belts and an umbrella. The night was still and the jamuni purple curtains didn’t rustle up when she switched on the fan.
After changing into a tee and shorts, Meenu went to the kitchen and this time without switching on the lights, she opened the freezer and felt around for an ice pack. Her fingers curled around a packet of frozen peas and she took it out, holding it against her lips for five whole minutes. What if her mama or mami walked into the kitchen at this precise moment and spotted her
with her lips puckered around frozen peas. Would they think she was practising to snog? And just like that, despite the evening, she broke into a weak smile. She then replaced the packet in the freezer and went to her room, collapsing into the diwan. She barely noticed the whirring of the fan above. On most nights, she had been unable to sleep because of the racket it made. Today, it made no difference as she fell into a dreamless state of sleep.
When Meenu woke up, the first thing she did was to run her fingers over her lips. They didn’t feel that swollen but the skin felt leathery at the corners. Not wanting to alarm her mami, she switched her phone to selfie mode and examined her lips before leaving her room. No sight of blood, but if one looked closer, her lower lip looked a bit mangled, as if some part of it had been chewed upon. Which is exactly what had happened, thought Meenu dryly.
She also noticed that she had received a couple of messages early morning. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Rakesh’s chat window glinting green on her WhatsApp messenger.
‘Hey … when did you leave? All okay?’ he had asked at five in the morning.
There was a message from Chanda that had come in even earlier, at 3.45 a.m. ‘Saw you and Rathore go behind the cabana. Sneaked to a more private space?’ she had asked with a wink.
Meenu didn’t bother replying to either of the messages and got up from the diwan to shower and dress. The sooner she left home, the fewer questions she would be asked. Besides, she knew her desk head would appreciate anyone who turned up alert and early after a late night party.
When she entered the office, she went straight to the washroom and examined her lips again. She thought she could get a better view under the mini spotlights. The paw paw cream she had used last night had considerably lightened the bruise. She reapplied now, drawing the tube out of bag. Once she came out, she took the stairs to the canteen upstairs for a cup of coffee.
The thought of running into Rathore had made her feel so queasy that she had decided to head to the canteen for a bit. Only when she saw the smoke billow from the Espresso machine did she change her mind and settle for cold pressed orange juice instead. At least it wouldn’t burn her lips. When she picked up her cup, her phone buzzed again. Rakesh had messaged asking if she was alright. ‘You left abruptly, so I was just wondering,’ he had typed. She didn’t reply again. She didn’t have the energy to recount last night’s events to anyone.
As she walked to her desk, strolling past Rathore’s chair, she found her temper rising as well as a sense of unease. She couldn’t fathom the reason behind it though. Was she feeling uneasy about meeting the Rathore of last night (the mad, bad version) or was it due to the slow but sure waves of guilt that she had begun to feel about her own possibly flirty behaviour with Rakesh?
By eleven, more reporters started trooping in, their heavy eyelids a tell-tale sign of a long night. Some of them were still hungover, their conversations thick and slurred. Over the next few hours, the chatter grew as did the WhatsApp pings and Instagram alerts.
All through the day, Meenu spotted groups of people gossiping in hushed whispers, smiling coyly or stealing glances with those they had hooked up at the party. Every time she passed them, her own sense of unease grew, ricocheting from the walls, swirling in nooks and crannies. And the two times she used the washroom, she saw the women around shutting up as she entered. Get a grip, she told herself. They weren’t talking about her. Or Rathore. They couldn’t have seen behind the cabana, she told herself halfheartedly.
Back at the business desk, Meenu and her colleagues were swamped with work. With just four more days to 15 October, the second quarter results of most companies had started trickling in. This meant a lot of work to get done in a short while. Meenu who had assumed her reporting profile just ten days back was asked to pitch in with the desk and help get out the extra one page the team was bringing out. Company spokespersons had to be interviewed, data had to be collated against previous years’ performances (which was expressly Meenakshi’s duty) and analysts had to be coaxed to reassure the aam janta and the government in 500 words that ‘Aaal iz Well’ in the corporate world, hiring wise and profit wise.
Around half past four, she was ready with everything that had to go on the page. The only thing remaining was to get hold of the bar graph that she had helped put together in the morning with the graphics team. The graph had been sent for correction to be put on page an hour back. She decided to go to the scanning room to give the technicians a gentle reminder. The scanners, as they were called, were a team of visual editors whose job was to air brush, brighten, remove red eye or hairy pits from every photo that graced the pages of a newspaper. They worked quietly and quickly, loading corrected pictures into the paper’s photo and text bank for use by deskies.
When Meenu walked into their circular room, almost everyone was out of their seats and crowded around one screen. Upon hearing her enter, one of the men, familiar with her, waved his hand at her.
‘Aao Meenakshi, kal ka potos dekho,’ he said beckoning her to join the crowd around him.
She strode up and leaned in. A memory card was being read and the thumbnails had just finished loading. Someone pressed for a slideshow and Meenu, along with the rest of the scanners, relived last night’s party through the pictures.
Her first impression of the venue stuck. It did look like scenes from the movie Avatar, all blue and white with splashes of red and purple. Slowly but surely, the photos started getting racier. Clearly, the photographer had hung around till late into the night, training his lenses on the dance floor and cabanas. The men around her had begun to titter and clap as each frame loomed into view. They were now shouting thanda-garam for every photo. Meenu felt distinctly uncomfortable and turned on her heel when a picture that loomed into sight made her stop dead.
‘Garam, garam,’ shouted the men around her. It was a picture of Rathore, clinging to a woman from behind, his arms around her breasts, his cock grinding into the small of her back. The photographer had been merciless, catching every detail.
Meenu felt sick and stepped out of the scanning room. She walked straight into Mistry’s cabin and asked if she could leave early. The man didn’t make the slightest of protest. He just waved her off instead with an awkward smile.
10
Did Mistry know? He surely must. Why else would he let her leave this early without even a flicker of protest?
Did the rest of the office know? Oh God, of course! People hadn’t been whispering about the food and booze all day. They had been dissecting the antics of their dashing, deep-throated sports desk head. Not surprising, considering Arjun Rathore wasn’t very popular at work. Sure, he was sought after by sports channels and readers looked forward to his column, but within The Daily Times, his high handedness hadn’t endeared him to anyone, not even his deskies. Last night’s antics had given his colleagues enough and more meat to bitch about his splendid horniness.
As she got into a cab and closed her eyes, it felt eerily like the evening before. Today though the setting sun had cast a glorious coral pink across the western skies, which if not for her own troubles, she would have surely sat up and appreciated. Right now, she was lost in her thoughts, the white noise of the cab’s air conditioning keeping her company.
It was a quarter to seven by the time she reached her mama’s apartment and she got out after paying the cabbie. As she walked up the stairs to the first floor, she could hear voices – the rich timber of her Carnatic sangeet-trained mama and of another, less deep, but equally open and friendly.
Not wanting to disturb the guests nor wanting to call attention to herself, she got out her key and opened the door herself, keeping her head down, slipping past the corridor and getting into her balcony. After bolting the door, she slid out of her office attire, reaching for the tee and shorts of last night from the coat rack. Pulling her shoulder length hair into a messy bun, she sauntered off to the kitchen to make herself some coffee. Nothing that a cup of filter kaapi could not fix.
Setting the milk to boil, she stared out of the window wondering how she had got herself into this mess. This summer all that she had wanted to do was snog a couple of hot guys before giving in to the ways of the sambhar mafia. And now here she was, actually hurting, which had never been a part of the plan.
But what about the other part of the plan? To become a journo and make a difference? How was she to achieve that if she let men chew her lips off and leave her stung with their sexcapades? She had to get a grip or she could very well return to Chennai. At least back home, no one would dare give her a frost bite on the lip.
First things first. Why in the world of an idly vada was she feeling so miserable? She had just spent last the whole of last night arguing that Rathore and she were not a couple; that a few kisses and dirty talk didn’t make them one. Then why did she feel so upset on seeing him grind into some woman? Was she jealous? No, that wasn’t the case. Did she feel hurt? Yes, terribly so. And then the small voice inside her turned up its volume and asked, ‘Wouldn’t Rathore have felt the same when Rakesh kissed you?’
Meenu gasped at that realisation and turned around in the nick of time to save the milk from boiling over. She stared at the creamy foam for a whole minute. But when she had come across the photo, she hadn’t hit him with a vase or done anything remotely violent like he had! She mixed her coffee and while at it, forced her inner voice to tune out and tuned in to the voices in the hall. Whoever the guest was, he was finally leaving. And Mama was being all obsequious, assuring him of a visit from the full family soon. Speak for yourself, Mamu, Meenu mumbled lowering her face into the mug and taking a sip.
She waited a couple of seconds after she heard the door click and then made her way towards the hall, coffee tumbler in hand. When she stepped in, her eyebrows shot up.
For right in the centre sat Rakesh slipping on his running shoes and tying its laces, his biceps flexing ever so lightly in the effort. Meenu ran her eyes over him from his sleeveless grey hoodie and faded blue jeans. On another day, a better mood she would have made googly eyes at him just like Padu’ma had at her dad. But today, well…
After the Storm Page 6
