Connor’s smile widened. ‘On any flight longer than four hours, if the TV screen is not working, the passenger is entitled to a seat change. And if there is no seat available in the passenger’s class, the passenger is entitled to an upgrade.’
Risha looked puzzled. ‘But my TV screen—’
‘Isn’t working. I know, love. Give me a few minutes and I’ll arrange for you to move up a few seats,’ he winked. ‘Terms and conditions apply.’
Risha frowned. ‘What terms and conditions?’
He straightened and said nervously, ‘Uh, your phone number? So I can ring you in Delhi, and maybe we can get a drink?’
Wait, what? All she had to do was give this guy a fake number and she could get upgraded to business class? She had given out fake numbers to persistent guys at weddings more times than she could count. It was so much easier than going through the whole ‘I’m not interested’ routine.
‘Of course,’ Risha said with a demure smile. ‘Why don’t you come by business class in a bit and I’ll feed it into your phone?’
‘Done.’
Hour 6
From: Risha Kohli
To: Nidhi Marwah
Subject: Best day ever
Guess where I am right now?
Nidhi’s response came immediately:
Based on the subject of your email and the number of hours you’ve been airborne, I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities:
(1) Your flight had to make an emergency landing at a five-star resort where you are using the free Wi-Fi while you wait to start a three-hour spa therapy (because I can’t imagine you ever paying for Wi-Fi. Yeah, yeah, it’s the principle of the thing, blah blah, who cares?)
(2) You got upgraded to business/first class and you’re using the free in-flight Wi-Fi
I kinda hope it’s the first one, so you can catch some sleep before—oh, I don’t know—the biggest wedding of the century?
Risha scoffed and wrote back:
Obviously, it’s (2). As if I would ever waste three hours of my life at a spa. Boring.
Long story, but yes, I got upgraded to business class. Also, the Khanna–Singhal wedding is hardly the ‘biggest wedding of the century’. You’re thinking Ranbir–Kat (if they hadn’t split up).
Nidhi responded:
For a person who claims to dislike her job, you sure use a lot of Bollywood references.
Fine, it may not be the biggest wedding of the century, but two relatively famous people are marrying each other and, in case you’ve forgotten, the festivities are four days long. So stop emailing me and get some sleep.
Yeah right, Risha thought as she typed her reply:
There’s no way I’m going to waste my first (and probably last) business class experience sleeping.
Did you know the seats recline all the way? As in, they turn into a bed! And they make fancy cocktails for you with little umbrellas in them. I’m going to ask for single malt with an umbrella just because I can. I’m guessing this is what Air Force One is like. I feel like the most powerful person in the world. I can never travel economy again.
Nidhi’s response was instant and concerned:
Whoa! How much caffeine have you consumed?
Risha replied:
Not much. Two lattes and a Diet Coke.
Not much.
Listen, there’s a bunch of buttons here but I don’t know what they do. I got upgraded mid-flight so I missed the business class orientation programme. Oh wait, I’ll just use the free Wi-Fi to google it.
Nidhi wrote back:
I don’t think they have an ‘orientation programme’, Rish.
Anyway, since you have a hundred more hours of flight time and you refuse to sleep, I’m attaching the most recent set of matrimonial ads from your parents. Sorry I opened the package, but it’s been sitting here for a week and I was tempted to see if any of the guys are worth meeting. I regret to inform you, they are not.
P.S. God forbid your parents ever discover matrimonial websites.
Attachment: [scan]punjabiboys.jpg
News Today courier log
Sender’s name: Dr A.K. Kohli, Amritsar
Receiver’s name: Risha Kohli, New Delhi
Date of receipt: Feb 17, 2016
Time stamp: 12:17 PM
Ignoring the ads, Risha wrote:
You know how they have those windows in limousines between the driver and the passengers? They have them in business class too! Most of the adjacent seats face each other and the dividers are supposed to ensure privacy. Except in a limo they separate the rich from the poor and in business class they separate the rich from the rich.
Btw, I just rolled down the divider by mistake and the guy on the other side is reading News Today! But he’s reading the main paper, not Delhi Today. I can read the front page from here and I’ve already spotted three typos. If I can see three typos from two feet away, you think our readers will miss them?
P.S. God forbid my parents ever discover the Internet.
Nidhi replied:
Frankly, the vocabulary of NT readers rivals most six-year-olds. I just checked with the marketing insights manager and according to her, in the last few focus groups one thing readers repeatedly asked for was ‘more SMS lingo’. I hardly think you need to worry about typos.
Why don’t you try talking to the guy next to you instead of reading the front page, dummy?
Risha rolled her eyes and typed:
I refuse to talk to a random stranger. What if he’s a murderer? I can’t see his face behind the NT masthead but he’s wearing a Rolex. You know how I feel about expensive watches.
Nidhi’s response was defensive:
Hey, Vikram has a Rolex! Even though he got it for endorsing the brand. Stop being judgy. Just because you wear an orange watch, doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t—oh, what the hell, I love your watch. Especially the adorable little panda on the minute hand!
And hello, I seriously doubt a guy flying business class is a murderer. Although he could’ve been upgraded from economy, just like you.
Risha addressed the most important part of the email:
I can’t believe I’m friends with someone who doesn’t know that the ‘adorable little panda’ is Po from Kung Fu Panda.
Hour 8
Arjun Khanna despised journalists.
Most of them were dishonest, duplicitous, and generally spineless. Two days ago, Arjun had spent half an hour on the phone with Vandana Kumar, the business editor of News Today. The conversation had resulted in a typo-ridden article that contained nothing substantial about the range of affordable homes Arjun had just launched in the national capital region.
NCR was swarming with young working professionals, most of them willing to stretch their budget to afford the lifestyle they aspired for. Instead of delineating Khanna Developers’ strategy to target these young professionals, the article went on ad nauseam about the company’s rich heritage, and how the legendary Arvind Khanna had pioneered high-end luxury condos in India. It was sycophantic garbage meant to suck up to his father.
While it was factually correct, the newspaper article did not serve Arjun’s purpose. The entire objective of the interview was to promote affordable housing, a segment his company had recently entered through the launch of their new residential towers ‘Casa Gurgaon’, by Khanna Developers. If anything, the article should have included something about the company’s branding challenge of creating an identity that was premium without being luxury. Arjun’s marketing team had spent several months developing a brand that borrowed credibility from the Khanna name without letting it overshadow Casa Gurgaon’s core essence—affordability.
But all Vandana had taken out of their thirty-minute conversation was the following quote: ‘From building Lego blocks to luxury condos, my dad has taught me everything I know. He’s my hero.’
The article was accompanied by a photograph of Arjun outside Casa Gurgaon, cutting a red
ribbon with a large pair of inaugural scissors. He scowled as he discovered an entire paragraph detailing his physical appearance.
‘Arjun Khanna, along with Internet mogul and brother-in-law-to-be Rohan Singhal, recently made NT’s list of 30 Hottest CEOs Under 30. An innately private person (much to the chagrin of his PR team), the 6'2" fitness enthusiast seldom makes appearances at social events or Bollywood parties. Last year, the debonair businessman attended cricketer Vikram Walia’s star-studded wedding bash and more recently he was spotted finishing the Mumbai Marathon. Since this interview was conducted telephonically, this journalist was denied the pleasure of seeing the dashing real estate tycoon in person.’
Was this seriously one of India’s largest read dailies, he thought with disgust. And if so, why did its readers care about how tall he was, or whose wedding he attended? He was better off being an anonymous associate in a New York investment bank than he was being a famous CEO back home.
Arjun tossed the newspaper aside impatiently and reached for his laptop, mentally typing out a stinker to his director of corporate communications. He was done with these trashy publications. In fact, he was done with the press altogether. Maybe Dad should handle these guys, Arjun thought grimly. But the PR team insisted on showcasing twenty-nine-year-old Arjun as the new face of Khanna Developers instead of its fifty-six-year-old founder, Arvind.
Four years ago, Arjun had given up his investment banking job in New York and moved back home after his father’s heart attack. In the interest of his father’s health, Arjun had tried to limit his involvement in the company to ceremonial tasks, and the senior Khanna had welcomed the reprieve. So letting Arvind handle something as critical and high-intensity as PR was out of the question. Although, Arjun thought with amusement, his father didn’t exactly think of public relations as ‘work’. Arvind Khanna’s famous combination of charm and humour often had reporters eating out of the palm of his hand. If only Arjun had inherited his father’s people skills in addition to his business acumen.
Arjun’s email alert sounded and he smiled at the pleasant interruption, an email from his sister. Chinky—her given name was Nitisha, though Arjun hadn’t called her that in years—was by far the calmest bride Arjun had seen, but their mother’s recent shenanigans were wreaking havoc on Chinky’s tranquil temperament. A few months ago, Amrita Khanna had joined the Science of Living (SoL), an organization run by Sri Sri Priye Guru Ma, formerly known as Priya Sinha, Miss South Delhi 1989. Apparently, Amrita was quite adamant about having a SoL satsang to ensure a shubh[13] beginning to the wedding festivities.
‘Dear Bhai[14], is it okay if we don’t invite Mom to the wedding?’ the email began, and then went on to make a compelling argument for institutionalizing their mother ‘even if we have to keep it a secret from the press’. The email ended with an attached draft of the invite their mother had proposed for the satsang.
From: Arjun Khanna
To: Nitisha Khanna
Subject: Re: Satsang
Chinky,
I think Priye Ma’s name is not prominent enough. We can definitely increase the font size by a couple of points.
Also, who is Amy?
Nitisha’s frustration was evident in her response:
Very funny.
Mom insists on being called Amy because according to Priye Ma, the name is ‘closer to the Pentagon of Perfection’. And Mom thinks it’s ‘cuter’.
What time does your flight land? Please get here asap and handle her, Bhai. I’ve got enough going on with the wedding prep and I’m also really swamped with work.
Arjun sympathized with his sister:
I have three extra years of experience in the matter, so trust me when I say this: what Amy wants, Amy gets. Save yourself some time and let her do what she likes.
And here’s an idea, if you are so swamped with work, why don’t you buy your wedding outfit from somewhere else instead of designing it yourself? That way you’ll have one less outfit to produce in your workshop.
Nitisha’s email sounded irate:
You really don’t know anything.
My wedding lehenga was finalized a month ago, including fittings. And even if it wasn’t, how would it look if I didn’t wear Khudai at my own wedding. Why don’t you just live in a DLF building instead of the penthouse at Khanna Heights?
Arjun wrote back:
Yes, I’m thinking of moving to the DLF Aralias. Don’t tell Dad.
By the way, I need to buy clothes for your wedding.
Nitisha’s response was crisp:
You already did. You’re welcome.
Arjun smiled at the last email. Chinky always had his back. He stood up and walked towards the galley snack bar to pick up more water bottles. Staying hydrated was the first step to beating jet lag and Arjun needed all the help he could get.
Arjun had just spent the last four days getting wasted at the extended bachelor party of his former roommate Karan, along with two of their close friends, Ali and Angad. Technically, they had only spent the first night in Vegas, drinking and gambling into the wee hours of the morning. On the second night, Karan had the brilliant idea of doing a road trip to Mexico.
And since all stupid ideas are born after five drinks, the guys had spent thirty hours on the road, and upon reaching Mexico, squandered the night drinking and gambling—the reason, Arjun pointed out, they had picked Vegas in the first place.
‘But then we would never have seen Mexico, bro!’ Karan justified, before he proceed to beat Arjun in a Corona-chugging contest. For Arjun, the trip was a much-needed break from work, and while it had certainly helped him unwind, he hadn’t gotten much sleep over the weekend. Every time Arjun and Ali tried to sneak in a nap, Karan barged into their rooms. ‘I’m getting married, fuckers. Wake up and let’s party!’
The man was out of control.
‘You’re getting married,’ Ali groaned, pulling a pillow over his head. ‘You’re not dying.’
‘A married man is as good as a dead man,’ Angad said philosophically, taking a long drag of his joint. Angad Vir Singh was known in Columbia University as Angad ‘Weed’ Singh, and in Ludhiana as Angad Vir Singh Bagga, king of hosiery and textile fabrics. At 5'5" and 120 kg, Angad’s opinion held weight, literally. ‘Let’s party, bro,’ Angad said in his characteristic monotone. Ali and Arjun had dragged themselves out of bed, unshaven and bleary-eyed, prepared to do some more damage to their livers.
Arjun stifled a yawn and pressed his fingers to his temples. He had to review a presentation for the upcoming board meeting and then he needed to get some sleep. He couldn’t afford to be sleep-deprived and cranky during Chinky’s wedding week.
‘Mr Khanna,’ the over-friendly flight attendant from before stepped in front of him. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked, throwing back her shoulders and thrusting her chest forward.
‘Just two bottles of water, please,’ Arjun said briskly.
‘Why don’t you take a seat, sir? I’ll bring them right over,’ she suggested, bending over to look for water bottles and giving Arjun an ample view of her ass, tight skirt and all.
Arjun spotted an entire carton of bottled water at eye level. He swiped one and returned to his seat.
A minute later, the flight attendant appeared with two water bottles. She leaned over him and placed them on his retractable table, practically shoving her breasts in his face. Arjun pressed back into his seat and shot her a discouraging look. He was all for harmless flirting but this woman just wasn’t his type. Too much make-up, too little personality.
‘Thanks,’ he said brusquely.
‘We’ll be starting our service shortly, Mr Khanna. Do let me know if you’d like anything special,’ she winked.
Even the strippers in Vegas had been subtler.
‘Sure,’ he responded blandly.
‘I’m Kritika,’ she said with a flirtatious smile before she walked away, swaying her hips deliberately.
The girl on
the seat next to him rolled her eyes at Kritika’s retreating figure. Then realizing Arjun had witnessed her reaction, turned away with an embarrassed smile.
Arjun looked at the girl in surprise.
Her brown hair was tied up in a messy bun, a few loose tendrils framing her face, and her bright hazel eyes were glued to her screen. The blush from her earlier embarrassment clung faintly to her cheeks, offsetting the olive undertones in her flawless skin and highlighting her full lips.
She was absolutely stunning.
His window divider was open and, though he didn’t remember rolling it down, it sure was a stroke of luck. Had she been sitting here the whole time? How had he not noticed her before?
Close your mouth, Khanna.
Arjun watched her long fingers dance on the keyboard as she typed away intently. He noticed that she wasn’t wearing a ring. Kitschy orange watch, but no ring.
He leaned back in his seat and waited for the in-flight service to begin. Food was a great conversation starter.
Hour 10
Risha didn’t want to stare, but she couldn’t help it.
Was the man sitting next to her undeniably the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on? Probably.
Were his piercing black eyes deeper than the ocean they were flying over? Most likely.
The Wedding Photographer Page 2
