After the Storm

by Lakshmy Ramanathan

  She tried to calm down by reminding herself of the file that jutted out of her leather tote. She had worked late into the night putting it together with facts and figures that she had hoped would make the editors sit up and take notice of the situation in Chennai. As she settled down in her seat, she opened it and flipped through its pages. Her eyes skimmed the lines that she had highlighted in yellow:

  During the weekend before Deepavali, the city of Chennai had received close to 73.5 mm of rain following which the fire and rescue department had used boats to rescue 34 people out of their inundated homes. Community kitchens were already functioning in the neighbouring district of Cuddalore where the death toll had reached 27.

  But what if Mistry rebuffed her data outright? Did she have the strength to stand her ground? Not really. After all, what business did she have in digging up weather related information, she asked herself. Nothing except that the city in question was her home. Would she be judged for pushing her hometown’s story or would he lap up her cold, hard facts? Unease churned in the pit of her stomach that she had forgotten to fill in the morning.

  After making sure Mistry hadn’t arrived yet, she hurried to the canteen upstairs for a quick bite. Crispy orange vadas and fluffy lemony poha beckoned her. Meenu had a bit of both and gulped down a cup of adraki chai, the only chai she could stand, her taste buds accustomed to the bitterness of filter kaapi. When she returned to her seat, he was still not in sight. She spotted his secretary though emerging from his cabin. ‘He’s just down the road,’ she replied to her raised brows.

  ‘In the morning?’ Meenu couldn’t help asking.

  The secretary simply shrugged her shoulders.

  Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him go down the road in a long time. He usually went in the afternoon or right after the first edit meeting in the evening. Not that Mistry was a creature of habit; nor Meenu his personal secretary.

  ‘Minaakshi, what are you doing here so early?’ barked Mistry, who was just entering his cabin.

  Meenakshi looked up from her doodling to see his lined face, his skin sallower than usual.

  ‘Shahroukh! Wanted to talk to you about something,’ she replied pulling out the file from her tote and walking towards his cabin determinedly.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked fixing her with an impenetrable gaze.

  Meenu shifted her weight from one leg to another and then burst forth like always, unable to contain the news any longer.

  ‘No lives lost in Chennai?’ he asked at the end of her presentation.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Meenu quietly.

  ‘Feed it to the national WhatsApp group. Let’s see if there is an internal response.’

  ‘What if there isn’t any?’

  ‘Then we’ll drop it,’ he said with unnerving calm, shrugging his shoulders.

  Meenu just stared and stared seemingly not finished with what she had come to say. Just as she found her voice, he held out his hand and said, ‘Listen, both you and I know the northeast monsoons wreak havoc in their path. So let’s wait and watch, alright?’ he said turning to the pile of papers on his desk.

  Sensing that Meenu hadn’t left his cabin yet, he looked up and said, ‘Good work Minaakshi. Keep digging further.’

  Right then his secretary bustled in carrying in his laptop bag and more papers. He looked at her expectantly.

  ‘No sir, they don’t have Swirly Noodles,’ she said in a bored voice.

  Mistry looked most put out.

  ‘There is always Clickdeal bawa,’ she said. ‘I told you, they started taking preorders two days back.’

  ‘What?’ he sputtered. ‘You never told me that,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like me to place an order?’ his secretary asked not bothering to remind him that she had made the exact statement three times in the last two days.

  Meenu didn’t wait to hear his response. She didn’t want to. She couldn’t believe that preorders for Swirly Noodles had caught the associate editor’s attention and not her piece of news. She barely hid her snort as she stormed out of the cabin.

  Nearing lunch time, Meenu hurried over to Rishi’s seat. He was typing hard and fast, his lips pursed in concentration. He didn’t look up even though Meenu leaned against his desk and waved her fingers at his face. The two hadn’t spoken to each other in a while and she had missed their kussar-pussar. Sorely.

  ‘Did you know it’s raining crazy in Chennai?’ she asked, poking him in the shoulder to get his attention.

  ‘Ahan?’ he asked finally looking up to see the anxiety on Meenu’s face. ‘How bad does it look?’

  ‘Very bad!’ she replied. ‘People are being rescued in boats, food packets are getting distributed—’

  ‘No deaths though?’ intercepted Rishi.

  ‘No, not in Chennai. Not yet.’

  ‘Hmm … Did you alert the nation desk?’

  ‘No, but I spoke to Shahroukh first thing in the morning,’ she said, her face all earnest.

  ‘And…?’

  ‘He asked me to feed it to the WhatsApp group and wait for an internal response!’ she replied, scowling. ‘Why? Is this a bloody referendum?’ Meenu spat out with thinly disguised disdain. ‘Can we only put out news that people like? Not what people should know about?’

  Before Rishi could open his mouth to respond, she said, ‘Maybe someone needs to tell him one less brief on the WAGS would not be the death of the paper.’

  ‘Minaakshi, when will you ever learn? Rishi asked quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?

  ‘Why do you think half of your sailing stories don’t get carried?’

  ‘Hello, the online team accepts every piece I turn in,’ she argued.

  Giving her his full attention, he said, ‘Okay, let me rephrase that. Why do you think it doesn’t go on the next day’s paper with as much frequency as you would like?’

  ‘Not sexy enough?’ ventured Meenu irritably.

  ‘Exactly! Rains in Chennai are like that. Not sexy enough.’

  ‘And according to you, what is sexy?’ she demanded in her silkiest voice.

  ‘Irina Shayk,’ replied Rishi grinning broadly.

  Meenu had a blank expression.

  ‘Model extraordinaire? Bradley Cooper’s girlfriend?’

  Meenu returned to her seat, biting back her frustration.

  For now, she would do as she was asked. She drew out her phone, tapped into the national bureau’s Whatsapp group and sent five one liner updates on the rains. She waited and hoped some desk head would blink and respond. And if not she told herself, she would keep posting updates until someone did!

  Her plan should work. Wouldn’t it? Maybe. At least a bit. That much she was sure about. Wasn’t she?

  16

  The next morning, Meenu woke with a scalp splitting headache. She got up clutching at her temples. She had barely slept a wink. The ceiling fan in her balcony had kept up a royal racket, rankling her ears for most part of the night. As she got out of the diwan and made her way to the washroom, she took a look at the calendar that swished from a nail on the corridor wall. Friday the thirteenth. It sounded ominous enough but she hoped the day wouldn’t turn out as bad. Rathore was coming in tomorrow and she looked forward to severing all ties with him, hopefully without further injury to her lips.

  She walked to the Bandra station past the milling crowds and piling garbage to catch a fast train to Lower Parel. Upon alighting, she joined the ever growing share taxi line to reach her office. Once she stepped inside, she dropped her bag in her seat and went to the ladies’ to wash her face.

  A quick login into DT’s virtual private network showed two unopened mail. One was from a reader who wanted to know when the next sailing regatta was and whether he could buy tickets to watch it at bookmyshow.com. Clubs in Mumbai, especially sailing clubs, were bleeding and encouraged the public to get into sailing, attend their workshops even, albeit at a price. She shot off an appropriate reply.

  The second mail was from the huma
n resources department. Her leave from 29 November to 2 December had been sanctioned. Meenu let out a huge sigh of relief. It would get Padu’ma off her back. Besides, she was looking forward to spending some time with her family although it came with attending yet another wedding. She wondered if she should file a story or two on the rains while staying in Chennai. Wait was she out of her mind? She was going on a holiday! She should be switching off her phone and going off the radar. That would be the right thing to do. Hang on! What about Rakesh? How was she to stay in touch with him? Aaah, she didn’t have to! He was going to be right beside her at the wedding! The thought made her smile and draw out her phone.

  ‘Hey … how r u?’ she WhatsApped him.

  ‘Could be better,’ the reply came immediately.

  ‘What do u mean? are you ill?’

  ‘Would be much better if I had you at an arm’s distance… on my kitchen counter actually’.

  She giggled and typed back.

  ‘In my shorts and tee?’

  ‘That would be perfect.’

  ‘Then I would get all hot and sweaty.’

  There was a pause and for a moment she thought he had gone. Back to the kitchen.

  ‘You are killing me,’ he wrote back.

  She sent a smiley.

  ‘BTW, my leave got sanctioned. I am coming to the wedding.’

  ‘Super! Listen I got to head out now. Will call you soon,’ said Rakesh.

  ‘Bye Bye,’ she replied, smiling to herself.

  Meenu looked at the time. It was nearing nine and her desk head hadn’t come in yet. She logged onto makemytrip.com and booked a round trip ticket to Chennai using her credit card. It gave her the tiniest sense of pleasure – to be able to buy her own ticket and not depend on her father who had long quit his corporate life and returned to his first love – teaching, that in all honesty wasn’t bringing home the big bucks any more.

  By lunch, it was utter chaos. The sensex had crashed to its lowest in two months and the business desk was in a world of pain. Mistry allocated an extra page for the desk. The entire team spent the afternoon calling up market experts, setting up interviews, begging for expert pieces, all the time looking at the ticking clock for some mercy. Meenu was in charge of putting together a timeline of the rise and fall of the sensex over the past three months along with accompanying graphics. Around four when she returned to her desk after an update from the in-house graphic designer, she found the tall and imperious looking Pinky waiting for her.

  ‘Who have you dumped on my back?’ she asked in a dry tone although Meenu could swear she could see the ends of her mouth twitching. It took a moment for her to realise that Pinky was referring to the intern – Ria Mulchandani – whom she had deposited with the entertainment desk a week back. She chuckled, taking her seat and swivelling around to face Pinky.

  The entertainment head smiled back. She liked the brown eyed, short-haired girl at the business desk. She worked hard and even found time to file stories outside her beat. Plus, she was willing to help without making a big deal out of it.

  ‘Apparently, the princess is very fond of her salads and A/Cs.’, she said looking down at her nails.

  ‘Really? Then she must suit your team just fine,’ replied Meenakshi her eyes gleaming wickedly.

  ‘Actually, I have half a mind to send her to the local fish market.’

  ‘I would not. Not if I wanted to keep my job.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Pinky asked, looking up from her nails, one of which appeared chipped and needed to be fixed before she attended a Bollywood producer’s party later that night.

  ‘Don’t you know? She is bhabhiji’s niece?’

  ‘Good god! That’s who she reminds me of. Bhabhiji! I kept wondering where I had seen her face before.’

  ‘Will you now revise your decision,’ asked Meenu genuinely curious.

  ‘She is a real princess then,’ Pinky mumbled.

  It took a while before she spoke again.

  ‘I guess I’ll send her on a restaurant review or something,’ she said.

  ‘Why, isn’t Rustom around?’ enquired Meenu, referring to the in-house food critic.

  ‘No, he’s fallen ill. He reviewed khau galli for the nth time. It just doesn suit his tony townie tummy,’ she said rolling her eyes and walking towards her desk.

  Around 9 p.m., when much of the chaos at the desk had been sorted out, Meenu left her seat to go talk to Rishi. The boy was positively glowering these days. Someone needed to tell him, the tough looks didn’t go with his smooth cheeks and dark, long lashes.

  ‘Do you know Rathore is returning tomorrow?’ she asked taking a mouthful of his untouched chutney sandwich.

  Rishi just grunted back.

  ‘You seem in a good mood,’ she said gulping the last bit and eyeing the fries.

  ‘No.’ he said tapping furiously.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked peering into his screen.

  ‘The Hindustan Mega League.’

  ‘Okay,’ she replied.

  ‘The HPL of football,’ he elaborated.

  ‘Yes I know,’ retorted Meenu in exasperation.

  And then suddenly, Rishi looked up from the screen and stopped typing.

  ‘Tell me something. Are you still with Rathore?’

  Meenu who had fingered a french fry into her mouth said,

  ‘I am gonna break up with him.’

  He let out a low whistle and looked at her in awe.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s a brave thing to do.’

  ‘I should have done it earlier, right after the office party. But then he was gone and…’ her voice trailed off …and I wanted to do this in person.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to be decent to him. Not him of all the people.’

  ‘You really dislike him right?’ she asked studying his face carefully.

  ‘If I have to ask him for permission to pee, I don’t think I am inclined to like him.’

  When Rishi had first complained about this, Meenu had thought he was joking. But he had been stating a fact all along. She wondered why she had not opened her eyes to Rathore’s high handedness earlier.

  ‘At least he wasn’t around for a whole month. There must have been some good from that…?’

  ‘Well, yes … nowadays I cover HML matches. At least the ones held in Mumbai.’

  ‘Not Zoze?’ she asked crinkling up her nose.

  ‘Zoze is now heading the desk, na … with Rathore gone.’

  ‘So … when is the next match?

  ‘Today, at 7 p.m. in Patil stadium,’ he said, flashing her the press pass he retrieved from his top drawer.

  Looking at the glossy, intricately designed ticket, she remarked, ‘This has picked up really well, right?’

  ‘Totally. Who would have thought that people would pay to come and see non-stars kick ball? I think everyone is sick of HPL! The team owners at HML are far more passionate about the game and committed to admitting talent from the grassroots.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember reading that piece on Abhishek Bakshi’s team and their grassroots programme.’

  ‘It’s not just the Chennai FC team,’ Rishi explained eagerly. ‘Most of the teams are doing it you know – it’s a diktat from the HML. There are plans to set up an academy that will feed the senior squad. Players are being sent abroad. It’s a fabulous opportunity for footballers.’

  ‘Are you writing about these things?’

  ‘I want to but Rathore hasn’t given his approval yet.’

  ‘Isn’t Zoze in charge now?’

  ‘Don’t you know Rathore? It’s his way or no way. Nah, we still have to send him our story ideas and get them approved.’

  ‘Hmm … no wonder he is so busy in Jaipur.’

  ‘He might be but the thing is he just doesn’t seem to have any interest in HML. Mention the name and he just twitches like some fused bulb.’

  ‘Really? But he practically breathes, lives football! Please don’t tell me
you haven’t noticed his jerseys. He has got like only twenty-six of them.’

  ‘Of course I have noticed. Which is what makes this really odd. The other day, the whole team was on a video conference call with him. The moment I started talking about the HML, he cut me short and moved onto something else. It’s not that he is not interested. He just does not want to cover it.’

  ‘Maybe…’ Meenakshi ventured into an explanation. ‘He wants to cover it himself. You know, be in the centre of action. Wait … why are you staring at me like that?’

  ‘Don’t you know Rathore never writes on football?

  ‘That is very odd,’ opined Meenu.

  ‘What? Him writing about cricket when he enjoys football?’ asked Rishi.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Actually it’s not. There are tonnes of people who are good at some sport or enjoy playing it but they don’t write about it.’

  ‘Then what’s so omeletty odd?’ she demanded.

  ‘What’s odd is his obvious love for the game and his total refusal to cover what is arguably India’s biggest attempt to revive it.’

  17

  The next morning, Meenakshi woke up with a start. Then she realised that it was a Saturday and she didn’t have to go to work early. People from her desk generally trooped in around three. She would do the same. Going back to sleep didn’t seem like an option now that she was wide awake. So she brushed her teeth, washed her face and sauntered into the kitchen. Mami woke early and breakfast and coffee were always readied before the rest of the household was up. A quick peep into the kadai on the stove revealed freshly made upma studded with green chillies and cubed carrots. In a tupperware container nearby, creamy white coconut chutney rested, tempered and untouched. Meenu helped herself to both and washed it down with a cup of filter kaapi over the folding table in the kitchen.

  She looked around to see if the kitchen needed any cleaning but everything was spotless. Just as Mami liked. As she rose to drop her plate in the sink, her eyes fell on a bottle of coconut oil. How she yearned for those oil massages Padu’ma gave, who always grumbled over the fact that Meenu wore her hair short. But, as always, her father had intervened and ensured that neither Meenu nor Krishna were ever forced to sport a hair cut or length that they didn’t like.