by George, MM
“I don’t know…”
“Haven’t you used a Dictaphone before?”
“No, but…”
“Who the hell hired you? What was HR thinking of to send me such an idiot?”
“I…” But Ranbir had already stormed back into his room.
Mira felt the tears well up in her eyes. That stupid machine! She had tried to type out the first letter, but by the time she’d typed a couple of words, the Dictaphone had whizzed ahead. It took her several tries each time to rewind to the point where she had been. And it had taken her two hours to type just a couple of paragraphs!
She choked back a sniff. It would be most demeaning to burst into tears now. Okay, so it had been an overwhelming morning, what with her early start and the rigors of the Metro and then the mix-up once she got here, but Mira Talwar did not do tears, no matter what. She blew her nose vigorously and got up from the chair. Should she go and explain to Mr. Dewan? She picked up her bag and went to the door, her hand held out to knock on it. Then she drew it back and crept out of the room. She didn’t think she could face that forbidding countenance again, not in her current frame of mind.
At the reception desk, she finally plucked up the courage to ask one of the girls about the cafeteria. “Go to floor six and turn left. It’s right next to the terrace garden,” said the girl without even looking up at her.
Mira climbed down to floor six. Even the elevator was too much for her in her current state of nerves. At the cafeteria, she found Mrs. Bansal’s cousin, Dhruv Gupta. Dhruv was in charge of the cafeteria and he was looking for someone to fill the post of his assistant.
“You should have been here two hours ago!” he said disapprovingly, when she introduced herself to him.
“I went to the wrong floor,” she said apologetically.
Dhruv nodded and asked, “What makes you think you are suitable for this job? This is not your normal office canteen. Mr. Dewan is very careful about what his staff eats. He wants all the food served here to be healthy and nutritious.”
“I’ve always been interested in cooking. My degree is in English literature, but I’ve been for several cooking courses, including one, actually two, three-month cookery courses run by the Army Wives Welfare Association in Meerut,” she told him. “One of those was in fusion cuisine. The CO’s wife had been to school with a top chef in Delhi and she persuaded him to come and teach us.”
“Okay!” said Dhruv, looking impressed. “But still, let me tell you once again that we don’t do oily samosas and rolls here, like you would find in most office cafeterias.”
“Samosas need not be unhealthy,” argued Mira. “If we bake them, and put in carrots and peas and less potato, they could be nutritious and tasty.”
Dhruv smiled. “I would advise you to go slow. Let them get used to you first. You can start tomorrow morning. Be here at seven sharp—don’t be late. We have to get breakfast going for those who come in early.”
Mira picked up her bag and made her way out. When she reached the elevator, the doors were beginning to close. She just about made it in and found herself facing a broad chest in a familiar looking striped blue shirt.
One eyebrow cocked up sardonically. “Well, well, well, it’s the girl who fled the Dictaphone. And where did you disappear to?”
Mira’s hands went to her dupatta, which had fallen off one shoulder in her rush. She could feel Ranbir’s eyes on her breasts, which were rising and falling rapidly as the result of her scrambled entry into the elevator. She blushed a fiery pink, confused by her body's own response to his gaze. She felt her breasts tighten in response to his insolent gaze, her nipples pushing against the thin cotton of her kurta. She looked up at him uneasily. His eyebrow remained raised in a question mark, the gleam in his eyes revealing he knew exactly what was happening. She moved back and hastily pulled up her dupatta to cover the evidence of her body’s betrayal, straightening her kurta at the same time.
“The cafeteria,” she squawked in confusion. She couldn’t understand the effect this man had on her body. It was as if it had a life of its own when he was around. He reduced her to a blathering idiot and she just couldn’t understand it. Get a grip on yourself, Mira, she told herself sternly.
“The cafeteria? You went to the cafeteria for a cup of tea while I waited for my letters to be done?”
Mira lifted her chin up. “No,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I landed up in your office by mistake. I was supposed to go to the cafeteria. I am going to be working with Dhruv Gupta.”
His eyes raked her once again. “Really? And what would a chit of a girl like you know about cooking for an office like Dewan Industries? This is not your usual grease and spice fare that we are talking about.”
“Mr. Dewan, I am an experienced cook and capable of handling your cafeteria.”
“If your efforts at typing are any indication, I would be seriously worried.” The elevator doors opened and he strode out. Mira gazed at him resentfully.
“You’ll eat your words, Mr. Dewan—and my samosas—before too long,” she swore silently.
≈
TWO
Ranbir walked to the porch of the office building, where his car waited for him, his hands curled tightly into fists. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had got under his skin the way Mira had. He couldn’t help thinking of her heart-shaped face and ridiculously overlong earrings that glinted through the mass of her curly dark brown hair. And her eyes, her large dark brown eyes—he had heard the phrase ‘doe eyes’ before, but this was the first time he had actually seen them. Could those thick curling lashes be real? In a world brimming with beauty aids, he thought not. But there was something wholesome about the girl. Her skin was dewy fresh. All at once, he remembered the succulent peaches he’d bitten into as a young boy, juice dripping down his chin. His favorite fruit, impossible to resist, topped with the thick cream Dadi would pour over it. Unbidden, the thought rose to his mind, would Mira’s skin taste like that boyhood peach? His body clenched as a wave of desire overtook him. He remembered the feel of her body against him in his office and again in the elevator. He could possibly span her tiny waist in his hands.
As he climbed into the car, he reminded himself that no matter how attractive or desirable she was, she was working in his office, and Ranbir Dewan never mixed work with pleasure. And he definitely did not want to be distracted from the contract he was going to discuss with his lawyers before he went to the meeting that would seal his next deal.
***
It was late by the time Ranbir returned home. It had been a good day. The deal had been struck and he was elated, if tired. He looked at his watch. There was just enough time to go up to his penthouse suite for a shower before he joined the family for dinner. His grandmother, Mrs. Saudamini Dewan, the matriarch who held the family together under a tight rein, insisted that the family meet for dinner unless they were travelling or had a dinner appointment. Ranbir smiled wryly. In a mansion where each family member had a suite of rooms to themselves, only Dadi could get away with so peremptory a command. It was lucky for all of them that she chose to assert her authority so rarely. ‘The family that eats together stays together’ was her favorite maxim and Ranbir had to admit that it did help him unwind to listen to his cousins, uncle and aunt talk of their day at the dinner table.
Ranbir was an only child. He had lost his parents in a car accident when he was eight. Dadi had been both his comfort and his strength at the time. The family business had been handled by his father’s younger brother, Ajay, till Ranbir came back from Harvard Business School to join him. As the scion of one of the wealthiest business houses in India, Ranbir was aware of his own worth. And if he did chance to forget it, there were enough newspapers and magazines to propel it back into his memory. At thirty-one, he was termed the country’s ‘hottest bachelor’ and was sought after by the most glamorous, successful and unattached women, and often seen with a model or actress draped over his arm. He could just snap a finger and
women would fall into his arms. That was why he found it intriguing that all through the day, he had not been able to banish the homespun Mira from his thoughts.
“Early night tonight, beta?” asked Dadi, as the maid put a hot chapati onto his plate.
“No, Dadi, I’ve promised to take Manisha to the new club that’s opened in Greater Kailash.”
“It’s really cool, Bhai,” said his cousin, Vasundhara, who sat across the table from him. “A couple of us had gone there last week. Good music.”
“What music?” said Meenu Chachi. “What kind of music is played at such a volume? Too noisy by half, these clubs. You can’t hear yourself; thinking and talking to people is impossible! If you want to listen to music, why not listen in your room?”
“Clubs are for young people, Meenu,” said Ajay Chacha with a teasing smile, “not for people our age.”
“What do you mean ‘our age’?” she sniffed. “I’m not all that old. Remember you married me straight out of school.”
Vasundhara kicked her cousin under the table and Ranbir hid a smile. “Chachi, where’s Tarun?” he asked to deflect the tirade he could see about to erupt from his aunt.
“He’s gone to stay the night with Raza. He says they study better together. In our time, our parents locked us up in our rooms when exams were around the corner.”
“Yet, you barely managed fifty per cent,” said Chacha mischievously.
“That was because I fell ill just before the exams,” bristled Chachi, when Dadi cut in.
“Stop needling her, Ajay. Look how well Meenu runs the house. Would she have managed it any better if she’d gotten a first division?”
“Well, I’m off,” said Ranbir, scraping back his chair and looking affectionately at his family all laughing together.
***
“Let’s dance?” asked Manisha, downing the last of her mojito. The night club was hot and crowded for a weekday night. Ranbir followed her to the dance floor. Manisha was a vigorous dancer and, usually, he found it easy to keep up with her, but today, he felt his thoughts wander. Peaches, he thought, soft and downy, ripe and succulent.
“What’s up?” Manisha asked, a puzzled expression on her carefully made-up face.
“Tired,” said Ranbir. He was more distracted than tired, actually. All because of a silly little chit who had walked into his office by mistake and had haunted him all day.
“Shall we leave then? Maybe I can fix you coffee at my flat?” Manisha’s voice was carefully guarded. They had been dating for six months, but had not taken it any further yet. Ranbir knew what she was proposing. What the hell! he thought. Why not? It might just help to keep his mind off the peaches and cream girl.
“Let’s go,” he said.
As they entered the elevator that went up to Manisha’s flat, Ranbir pulled her towards him and kissed her lips. Her hands came up to rest on his shoulders, and he buried his hands in her hair and deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth with a thoroughness that left her breathless.
“Wow!” she gasped, drawing back as the elevator door slid open at the tenth floor. “Where have you been all my life?”
Inside the flat, she flicked on a muted light and went over to where he stood, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. She pressed her lips against his mouth, grinding her hips against the bulge that was growing in his trousers. Ranbir pulled her roughly towards him, hands reaching under her silk halter top to find the clasp of the lacy bra she wore underneath, snapping it open. She moaned as his hands covered her breasts, fingers rolling her nipples to attention. Her body arched in pleasure, begging him to take her further. Ranbir pulled at the ties of her top and let it fall in a pool at her feet. He lowered his head and took a dark nipple into his mouth.
Manisha moaned and reached in frenzy for his belt buckle. Ranbir picked her up and carried her to the couch in her living room and laid her down. He removed his T-shirt, while she slid off her jeans. As he unbuttoned his jeans, he gazed down at her. She was naked except for a lacy thong and her eyes were large with arousal.
“Come here, you,” she whispered and drew him down to her. Ranbir settled his long length over her, burying his face in her neck, his lips seeking the soft warmth of her throat. She raked her nails over his back in ecstasy, lifting her torso and offering her breasts up to his mouth. Ranbir lowered his head to tease her nipples with his tongue before he drew one into his mouth. She moaned even more deeply. His hands were already seeking the wet warmth that had dampened her thong when, unbidden, a heart shaped face framed by thick brown curls swam before his eyes. Mira! He groaned and sat up in a sudden movement. “I'm sorry, Manisha, I can't. Let's not rush this...”
“What happened, Ranbir?” asked Manisha, bewildered at his sudden withdrawal.
Ranbir moved off from the couch, doing up his jeans. “What’s wrong?” asked Manisha again, standing up and wrapping a throw around her, sarong-style. “You can’t just leave me like this.”
Ranbir pulled her hands into his. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking into her eyes. “It’s not about you—it’s my fault. I think I’m tired, I don’t know, but I don’t think I’m ready for this yet.”
“Was this some kind of a test?” cried Manisha, furious now. “Did you just want to see what kind of a girl I was? How far I would be willing to go? Surely you don’t expect a virgin wife!”
Ranbir pulled on his T-shirt. “Manisha, I thought we were just having some fun, enjoying each other’s company. I am not planning to get married yet. If I had known you had marriage on your mind, I wouldn’t have come back with you to your flat.”
Crack! Manisha’s hand made sharp contact with Ranbir’s cheek. “Get out! Right now! You bastard, who the hell do you think you are?! I never want to see you again!”
Ranbir opened the door and looked back at her face, streaked now with angry tears. “I guess I kind of deserved that,” he said quietly, “but believe me, I’m sorry....”
≈
THREE
In a couple of weeks, Mira was pretty well established in the routine of the cafeteria. It was still a bit of a rush to get to the office at seven in the morning. Getting up at five every day to catch the first Metro train was not what she would have described as an ideal state of affairs and, most days, it was more luck than efficiency that found her aboard the train, eyes still crossed with sleep. She would run into the cafeteria to find Dhruv already cutting up the fruit for the morning staff’s breakfast. Luckily, once Dhruv realized that her cooking skills were all that she’d boasted of and more, he was prepared to look the other way if she didn’t clock in at exactly seven.
“Do they eat oats every day?” Mira asked as she stirred the huge pot on the stove. “Why not cornflakes? Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“Mr. Dewan feels that oats are healthier than readymade cereals.”
“Doesn’t he ever feel like eating an aloo ka paratha?” she asked. “I wouldn’t eat this pasty stuff if my life depended on it. Give me a hot paratha, with a dollop of butter on it, and a glass of chaas, and I could die happy.”
“You would probably die on that kind of diet,” said a voice behind her. Mira whirled around from the tiled island where the stove was, to find Ranbir looking at her. She blushed vividly, casting around hurriedly in her head to recollect whether she had said anything about him. Ranbir gave no indication of having heard anything. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, with an ice blue shirt and a navy blue tie. He’s had a haircut, thought Mira irrelevantly. He looked better with his hair longer.
“Once Miss Talwar has finished her perusal of me, will you send her to my room with some breakfast for me?” Ranbir looked at Dhruv. “Oats, fruit, some dates and scrambled tofu—you know how I like it.” He strode out of the cafeteria.
“Scrambled tofu? Why not good, wholesome paneer?” asked Mira, as Dhruv took a bowl of the white stuff out of the fridge.
“More fat content,” he retorted. “Soya milk is better. Now chop up some ginger and one small green ch
illi. No sugar in the oats. And no pineapple—Mr. Dewan is allergic to pineapple. That’s why we keep it in a separate bowl.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mira was carrying a tray to Ranbir’s room. Standing outside his door, she was wondering how to balance the heavy tray in one hand so that she could knock, when the door opened suddenly before her. Ranbir had obviously heard her shuffling outside his door.
“Your breakfast, Mr. Dewan,” she said demurely, bending to place the tray on the coffee table. And then spoilt it all by nearly overbalancing and sloshing some of the steaming black coffee on her hand. “Ouch!” she muttered, scowling at the offending liquid.
“Is it possible for you to do anything without fumbling?” asked Ranbir, stepping up behind her and then looking at her. She was blowing furiously on her hand where the hot coffee had scalded her, tears of pain brimming up in her eyes. “Have you hurt yourself?” he demanded, catching hold of her hand.
Mira felt herself tremble at his touch. All sensation of pain in her hand vanished as her senses heightened to fever pitch and all she was aware of was how close Ranbir was and the feel of his hands on hers. Ranbir grabbed a jug of water from the nearby cabinet and dragged her to the huge potted palm near the French window in his room. “Ohhhhh!” she gasped, as he splashed the ice-cold water over her scalded skin, drenching half of her as well in the process. She was wearing a yellow voile kurta and the water soaked into it quickly. Ranbir sucked in his breath sharply as he took in the outline of her body under the now almost transparent material, the smooth curve of her bottom and the taut thrust of her breasts.
Mira looked at him nervously—he was so close. She took a step back, only to find the glass of the window a chilly barrier behind her. Ranbir closed the distance between them with one determined stride. Mira closed her eyes as his mouth swooped down towards hers. Her body was stiff with tension and she turned her face sideways.
