Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake Read online

  Finally, it is he who suggests that we should head back home as it is getting increasingly dark. I still do not want this date to end and I can sense that neither does he. But he asks for the bill anyway and I notice him adding a very generous tip. He then says that there is a lovely place near his home which serves Haagen Dazs ice cream and asks if I want to go. Of course I do. Anything to get some more time with him.

  So we leave and begin walking towards his car. I stride to the edge of the pavement and suddenly my heel trips over an uneven surface, making me fall over and go crashing to the ground. As I fall, my forehead bangs against a telephone pole and the impact doubles. One minute I am walking and the other minute, everything goes blank and I am in excruciating pain. I feel so darn embarrassed. But despite the pain, I yank my wraparound skirt in a hurried attempt to cover my thighs and salvage some of my dignity, totally horrified that this has happened in front of Samir. I just hope he hasn’t seen my underwear flashing.

  He is standing beside me, looking worried and saying, ‘Oh my God, are you okay?’

  My forehead is throbbing with a stabbing pain, but I manage a weak smile.

  ‘Oh no! You’re bleeding. Let us get you to a hospital,’ says a concerned-looking Samir helping me up.

  As I stand up, I notice to my utter horror that my skirt (or rather Chetana’s skirt) is ripped beyond repair. My right leg is bleeding profusely. I can’t even look at Samir. I have never felt this mortified in my entire life. I somehow want to redeem the situation. What must Samir be thinking of me? That I cannot hold a drink and my balance? God!

  ‘No, no, I am fine. Just a little shaken. I don’t want to go to a hospital,’ I assert firmly.

  He nods meekly and as we get into the car, I take out my handkerchief and dab my leg. I don’t want to bleed all over his car and spoil his car seats.

  ‘Look, it’s late in the night, and I live close by. It will take us at least an hour to get to your place from here. The wiser thing would be to go to my place if you don’t mind,’ he suggests.

  And that is how I end up spending the night in Samir’s apartment which is no less than a penthouse, situated in one of the most upmarket areas of south Mumbai. It is ridiculously luxurious and like nothing I have seen before. It even has a circular skylight over the foyer and offers a spectacular view of the millions of twinkling stars that adorn the night sky.

  Samir guides me to the guest bedroom and I have to stop myself from gasping at the opulence of the mansion.

  He walks to the bathroom and comes out with a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton.

  ‘Let me fix that nasty wound,’ he says.

  ‘No really, I am fine. I’ll do it,’ I insist. It comes out louder than I intended, and I hope that I do not sound like a shrieking witch to him.

  Samir looks at me uncertainly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to retire then. Everything you need—toothbrush, toothpaste, soap—it’s all there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘There’s also a dressing gown in the closet. It’s not your size, I am afraid. But I don’t have anything else.’

  I just want him to go out. I want to nurse my wound and my battered ego. By myself.

  ‘Goodnight, and I am so sorry about this.’

  ‘Please don’t be. It’s fine really. Am glad about the company and the nice time we had,’ he says, as he walks out and closes the door behind him.

  I rush to the bathroom and check out my face. There is an ugly bruise on my forehead.

  I clean up my leg which has stopped bleeding now but still stings from the antiseptic I had applied a while ago.

  What a horrendous end to the perfect dream date.

  I look at my surroundings. The bathroom is so posh and luxurious that I take a tissue and clean the counter of the few drops of water that splashed outside the wash basin when I washed my face.

  I change into his dressing gown and wrap it around myself. It feels so strange. This is the first time in my life that I have worn a piece of man’s clothing. It feels so weirdly intimate. Despite my earlier embarrassment and horror at landing in such a silly situation, I begin to relax. My thudding heart finally begins to calm. All this while I was floating in air, suspended out of reality by Samir’s presence on me. But the fall has brought me crashing down to earth. Literally and figuratively.

  I think of Chetana’s torn skirt and her top that now has dirt streaks all over it. I feel worse about the torn skirt than my bleeding leg. I just hope the skirt wasn’t too expensive. I also think about my dad and whether he will even notice I wasn’t home. Then I think of work and realize that I have to be at office the next day.

  There is a tiny alarm clock beside the bed. I set it for 5 a.m. I want to be up much before Samir wakes up. I want to look fresh, and most importantly, I want to be on time for office. I would not have been so eager had I known what was to follow.

  But I do not know it then. And so, finally, I slip into the land of slumber, surrounded by luxury in an attractive guy’s apartment, a guy I just met for the very first time. Under different circumstances, I would have been thrilled about it. But right now, I just want to get back to my normal life, as soon as possible.

  All Nightmare Long

  I am up long before the alarm clock rings. The events of the previous evening all come rushing back to me, and the scenes replay themselves inside my head once more. It feels unreal, almost like a rerun of a well-known movie played many times on television, and yet you cannot help watching it, even though you have seen it all before and even know the dialogues by heart. My toes curl in embarrassment recalling last night’s happenings and now I am certain I do not want to see Samir’s face again. I decide to quietly leave. If I leave right now, there will still be enough time to go home, have a change of clothes, and then travel to work.

  I wear the same outfit from the previous night, adjusting the skirt in such a way that the tear comes at the side. I look into the full-sized mirror and study my reflection as I hang my handbag over my left shoulder so that it conceals the tear. I moisten my hands with water and try to brush away the dirt streaks from Chetana’s black top. There—it looks passable now and I am sure people will not stare. Then I look for a pen and paper to leave Samir a note.

  I rummage through his bedside drawer and find a pair of long, intricate silver earrings. Beautifully carved, the shining stone set in its middle looks like a diamond. Somehow I find my heart getting heavier.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Nisha, you hardly know the guy. He must have slept with dozens of women and you must simply be a new distraction for him.

  I know its plain silly of me to feel bad about finding a pair of earrings in his spare bedroom, but I cannot help it.

  God—what is wrong with me? First I throw myself at him, then I ruin a wonderful evening by tripping and falling down, and now I am fretting over a pair of earrings.

  I hurriedly shut the drawer and slowly tiptoe out of the bedroom. I am relieved to find that he is nowhere in sight. I let myself out, carrying my heels in one hand, so that the click-clack of their noise when I walk in them does not wake him. I stealthily creep out like a burglar, and only once outside, do I finally wear my heels. Then I close the door which clicks automatically shut. I check to see if it opens from the outside, and when it doesn’t, I go downstairs into the street and hail a cab.

  At my home, my father has hardly noticed my last night’s absence, or even if he had, he has chosen to say nothing about it. It suits me fine as it is the last thing I want to talk about.

  On my entire journey to my workplace, I keep thinking of how I have gone out with two attractive men in a single day, and what a difference there is in both their attitudes. Prashant had taken me to an office party in a Mumbai local train while Samir had taken me to an ultra-posh place in an ultra-posh car. But then again, Prashant had been kind of forced to go with me, while Samir seemed to have genuinely enjoyed
my company. Yet I cannot help feeling a little bit of resentment towards Prashant. I am not that uninteresting for him to have been so callous. More than callous, he has taken me for granted, and I am a bit angry at him for having treated me so. I decide that if ever a situation like this arises in the future (which I am certain will not happen as this was an entirely one-off thing), I am definitely not going out with Prashant again. He can chase the Leenas of the world. I am okay without a date. I have had enough of being treated shabbily.

  I reach work on time, freshly showered and looking much more bright and chirpy than I feel inside. I am certain that I do not want to tell anybody about last night’s date with Samir. I do not want Chetana and the rest of the gang at work to know. I feel lousy about it anyway, and reliving it all over again will only propound my misery. Surely if I brush it aside and pretend it was nothing, they will probably forget about it? In a few days, all of this will be history. That is the grand plan I make on ‘How to deal with the Samir disaster’.

  But when I reach office, I cannot escape the questions. Chetana is waiting to pounce on me.

  ‘Halooo madam! Bright and happy! How went everything?’ she asks and winks.

  I see Prashant perking up his ears and waiting for my reply. I know instantly that he has told everybody at office that I went on a date with Samir Sharma himself.

  ‘Oh, nothing to write home about. It was okay,’ I mutter, pretending to get busy by opening a file.

  ‘Come on, woman, spill the beans! Don’t act so snobbish just because you went out with Samir,’ persists Chetana.

  Prashant has now stopped pretending to be interested and has walked over to the counter and is resting his face in his elbows.

  There is a slight sneer in his voice as he says, ‘Yeah, yeah, go on and share with us what you did last night.’

  I am irked now with Prashant’s needling and his ‘I-am-God’s-gift-to-womankind’ attitude. I am angry with him for being so condescending. I am indignant at the shabby way he has treated me so far and after last night’s events, my blood now boils thinking about the way he walked off with Leena, without even so much as bothering to talk to me. The whole Samir fiasco would not have happened had Prashant stayed by my side. But there is no way I am letting him know it has affected me even the least bit. And now he has the bloody cheek to taunt me, asking me with a sneer, what I did!

  ‘Actually,’ I say, and I pause for effect, ‘I spent the night at his apartment.’

  ‘You what?!!’ exclaim both Prashant and Chetana in utter shock, as though I have dropped hot coals on them. I, of course, do not bother to explain the circumstances under which I spent the night.

  I flash a triumphant smile at Prashant. I want to rub his nose in some more.

  ‘And Samir happens to be good friends with Jairaj Singhania too,’ I add. It feels great and important dropping names.

  ‘Oh my God! Did Samir tell you all this?!’ asks Prashant and I can see he is totally impressed. He is not even making an effort to hide it. I feel the slow satisfaction of vengeance further giving a boost to my bruised ego. I feel powerful to see the effect my words are having on him.

  ‘Yes he did, and he told me about Parinita and Jairaj too,’ I add in a slightly superior, all-knowing tone.

  I can see that suddenly, I have everybody’s complete attention. They have stopped doing whatever they were doing and are clearly tuned in to what I have to say. Uh-oh. This has gone beyond the impact I intended it to have. Now I want to take back what I said.

  But they are all waiting, as though it is a publicspeaking event and I have been given the mike.

  I don’t know what to do. I can feel my face turning slightly hot. I have said more than I intended to. Now, I desperately look for an escape route.

  ‘So go on then, tell us!’ urges Chetana, her eyes full of anticipation at a juicy piece of gossip.

  ‘Oh well, it is nothing really,’ I say lamely, wanting the earth to swallow me up.

  ‘So is she his mistress then?’ asks Prashant.

  Before I can answer, there is a sharp rap on the counter.

  We all freeze in horror as we see Parinita Sachdev standing there, like a chiselled marble-stone statue. Her eyes are blazing. Her face is a mask of cold rage and fury.

  I feel my hands going icy cold. I am certain she has heard all of our conversation, even though I have no idea how long she has been standing there. We had been so engrossed in our squabbles that we hadn’t noticed her coming.

  I swallow once and look down, busying myself with reading a letter.

  Parinita says nothing and marches into her cabin. I feel my whole body sagging with relief. Everyone scuttles back into their seats and get busy working. Deepti goes into Parinita’s cabin to apprise her of the weekly happenings.

  After twenty minutes, I find Deepti standing at my counter.

  ‘She wants to see you inside,’ she says curtly.

  ‘Did she say why?’ I ask, my heart sinking. Parinita has never called me inside before. It is always Deepti who submits the weekly accounts and Prashant submits the reports of their field trips.

  I wish now I had kept my mouth shut. I am a silly, immature blabbermouth. I bagged one measly date which went horribly wrong, and I covered up by boasting and pretending to be superior.

  I walk into her cabin, my heart thudding hard.

  Parinita’s face is a mask of ice now. She looks like the white witch straight out from The Chronicles of Narnia.

  ‘Nisha, you can gather your belongings and leave,’ she says simply.

  It takes me a few seconds to comprehend what she is saying. Then I realize I am being fired.

  I open my mouth to speak but no words come out.

  Finally, I say weakly, ‘But Ma’am, I have worked here for the past four years.’

  ‘You are inefficient, lazy, and do not know how to conduct yourself at an office party. You are a disgrace and have spoiled the image of Point to Point. Now get out of my sight and come to the office at the end of this month to settle your dues,’ she spits out the words with venom.

  I am shocked and silent. I have always prided myself on doing my work efficiently, on being punctual, and on getting along well with my colleagues. This job is the only one I have had. For the first time in my life, I had felt I belonged somewhere. But now it feels like someone has punched me in the face as a reward for my loyalty.

  I walk out quietly, shoulders slumped. I want to protest at the way I have been asked to go. I want to say something in my defence. But words fail me. There is no higher authority to appeal to. Parinita runs the show and her call is final.

  I sit at my desk and there is complete silence in the office. Everybody seems to have sensed what has happened. Either that, or Deepti has probably told them. I quietly gather a few personal items lying on my desk. I can feel tears stinging my eyes and I blink them back.

  ‘What happened? What did she say?’ whispers Chetana.

  But there is a lump in my throat and I do not trust myself to speak. I do not want to start crying in front of everybody and make an unnecessary scene.

  I simply nod and do not meet her eyes.

  I stuff my things in my bags and make a hasty exit.

  ‘Hey, you okay?’ asks Akash, as I head towards the exit door.

  I just nod and pull out my sunglasses, wearing them on my way out.

  It is only when I am seated in the local train that I remember I have not returned Chetana’s clothes.

  I feel miserable and Parinita’s words keep going round and round in my head. I am definitely not inefficient as she said. I have the urge to go back and scream at her. But I do not have the guts to face her. I hate my cowardice. I hate the fact that I have said nothing in my defence. I hate how meekly I have behaved and quietly accepted her hurled abuses.

  I was perfectly content yesterday morning, when I was going on a date with Prashant. I was over the moon when Samir asked me out.

  And now there is no Prashant, no Samir, no Poi
nt to Point. I have nothing to look forward to from tomorrow. Why tomorrow; from right now itself. I have no job, no identity, and I really do not know what to do, as I sit in the train, feeling leaden, feeling blue, and wishing and wishing I had kept my big mouth shut.

  The only life I knew, and was leading, has come to an abrupt end and there is nothing I can do about it.

  Some You Win, Some You Lose

  ‘Not getting ready for office today?’ asks my father, peering over his glasses from above the newspaper.

  ‘I have taken a week off. Just wanted to take a break,’ I lie.

  He just shakes his head and busies himself with reading the newspaper, after which he leaves for work. He has worked in the same organization in Vikhroli for the past thirty years, and words like ‘taking a break’ do not exist in his vocabulary. In fact, people tell me that he went right back to work the next day of my mother’s funeral. Perhaps that is the only way he knows to prevent his grief from spilling all over and making a mess of his life.

  But I do not have that option, and so I sit down and cry. Large sobs. Like a child whose favourite toy is broken. I feel sorry for myself. After about fifteen minutes of crying, I realize that nobody is going to help me but myself. The crying has given me some emotional release and I go and wash my face and brew myself a cup of tea.

  Then I take the newspaper and start circling the classified jobs. I have narrowed down three after making several phone calls. I have an interview in the afternoon the same day and I have two more lined up for tomorrow.

  Ultimately, all of them turn out to be dead leads. For the first one, all they want is a typist, even though the position advertised had said front office manager. As it turns out, there isn’t much of a front or much of an office either. The other interview has a fat, bespectacled, middle-aged guy wearing a dhoti and a Gandhi cap, chewing paan, and as he spits out he asks if I am willing to deposit all my original degree certificates for two years with them as a ‘bond’ or a guarantee that I will not quit for the next two years. I am very uncomfortable at the prospect of being chained to an organization like that, and so I refuse. The third interview has a lecherous old bastard who talks more to my breasts than to me. I can actually see him drooling and eyeing me lasciviously which makes me feel all creepy. He does not take his eyes off my cleavage the whole time, his eyes almost popping out like a toad. I run out in terror, even as he offers to raise my pay.