Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake (5 page)

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 Point 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

‘
N
ot 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.

Seven more days (and eleven more interviews) of similar kind follow. I call, I set up interviews, I attend them with hope, but mostly what they advertise isn’t what they really want. By the end of the seventh day, I am tired and frustrated. I feel dumb and worthless. My diploma in travel and tourism does not seem to count much in all the jobs that I am applying for. But then, hardly any travel agencies advertise for their staff positions. Recruitments in the travel industry are done mostly through word of mouth or through campus
recruitments (which was how I had landed the job at Point to Point, fresh out of college).

I curse stupid Parinita and her precious Jairaj. I truly do not care whether she is his mistress or madame. I curse Prashant. I curse my big mouth for having boasted about my stupid date. All I want is a decent job. But I do not seem to be able to manage even that.

The prospect of sitting at home with nothing to do scares me to death. I am at my wits end and am fast losing my patience too. I truly do not know what to do except wait for the next day’s paper, in the faint, tiny hope that some travel agency in some obscure corner of Mumbai might need a travel assistant like me. Apart from the eleven interviews that I have attended, I have also submitted my CV to many places, where they said they would get back to me after the initial assessment is done.

When the phone rings, I almost jump out of my skin. My heart pounding, I pick it up. It might be someone offering me a job. But it turns out to be Chetana.

‘So finally someone remembered that I exist,’ I say acidly when she asks how I am, the events of the last few days not helping a great deal to up my mood.

‘Hey, look. I am so sorry about not calling earlier, but I was caught up in this whole “arranged marriage” business. My parents just can’t seem to leave me alone.’

‘Anything clicked? Do we hear wedding bells soon?’ I perk up a little despite my current state of misery.

‘Arre yaar, the guy looks like a cross between a bull and a bull dog. His nostrils are so big, and by the looks of it, he weighs at least ninety kilos on a five-foot ten-inch
frame. Plus the guy seems to know nothing apart from his work, which I know nothing about.’

I giggle at her description of him.

‘What made your parents consider him then?’ I ask.

‘Oh that’s easy to guess. His IIT-IIM tag,’ she spits out the words and I can almost picture her disgust.

I sigh.

‘But hey, listen, that is not why I called! Guess why I did!’ she says in a sing-song manner, her voice taking a more upbeat tone now.

‘Ummm…does Parinita want me to come back?’ I barely whisper, hoping against hope that it is true, hating myself as soon as I say it. If I had any shred of self-respect left, I would not even hope for this outcome, and instead would tell Parinita to stuff her job up her pert you-know-what.

But seven days of useless job hunting has worn down my pride as well as chipped away at my determination. I am ready to beg, borrow, or even steal, as I am desperate for a job like the one I had.

‘I wish I could tell you that, but this is something even better,’ says Chetana.

Eh?! What can be better than that? I am dying of curiosity now.

‘Tell woman! Tell me fast before I explode!’ I exclaim.

‘Samir called up here a little while ago asking for you!’ she says, as though she has delivered a bit of news that will make me want to throw my hands up in a dance.

But to me it is disaster. Oh no! Now Samir would now know that I lost my job. What a shame!

‘Oh,’ I say unable to hide my disappointment.

‘And when Deepti told him that you are no longer working with us, he wanted to know why. She said she had no idea and that you had left.’

‘Thank Lord she had that much grace, I mutter.

‘But aren’t you happy?! Samir Sharma himself actually called up asking for you! He
wants
to talk to you. I would be over the moon if I were you,’ says Chetana.

How can I make Chetana understand how much a job means to me at this point in my life? Chetana comes from an affluent family, and she has all the love and acceptance as well as plenty of money. For her, the job at Point to Point is just a temporary thing to occupy herself with, till the time she nets a good husband.

For me, it is everything. It is where I get my acceptance, it is my little secure world, it is where I get my financial independence—as small as it may be. Heck, it is the only place I ever felt I belonged.

I tell Chetana about the last seven days and how unsuccessful I have been at scouting a job for myself.

She does not know what to say.

‘Don’t worry. Something will turn up,’ she finally says to perk me up a little.

Then I remember her soiled clothes and apologize profusely for the tear in her skirt. She asks me to forget about it. She says she doesn’t even need them as they do not even fit her anymore. I do not know whether to feel pleased that I was feeling bad about damaging them for nothing or whether to feel upset that I had been handed over discarded clothes which she did not even care about and I had taken great pride in wearing.
Anyway, it is too late to brood about it now, and I have the more pressing matter of finding a job. So I politely thank her and hang up.

The phone rings again almost immediately, startling me again and I pick it up at once and say a resigned hello.

‘Hey. Do you always answer on the first ring?’ asks a deep voice and it is unmistakably Samir’s.

‘Oh! It’s you. How did you get my number? Did Deepti give it to you?’ I ask, quite taken aback that he has called me at home. I never gave him my home number and I did not even think that our paths would cross again, ever.

‘Deepti who?’ he asks, and I can picture him furrowing his brows.

‘Deepti, my colleague at Point to Point,’ I say, and as soon as I say it, I realize she is an ex-colleague now. The realization and talking to Samir bring a fresh wave of pain, like a nasty gash which you think is healing, opens up suddenly and spouts blood everywhere.

‘Oh no. I have no idea who it was I spoke to there, but I can see you are well informed about my activities,’ he teases.

It irks me, even though I know he means it purely as a joke. The last thing I want to do is track the activities of the likes of Samir Sharma. All that is on my mind right now is landing myself a job.

‘Look Samir, I have to go. But I would appreciate it if you tell me how you got my home number,’ I say a little icily.

‘Hey sorry! I didn’t mean to annoy you. You had
dialled your dad that day from my cell phone in the restaurant, remember?’ he says.

I had almost forgotten about that magical evening which had later turned into disaster. I soften a bit at the memory. Even though it has only been a week, so much has happened since that first date that it feels like a month.

‘Oh yes, I do remember,’ I say.

And before I can say anything more, Samir has asked me out again. He says he would really like to talk to me about something important and asks if we can go out this Friday, which is tomorrow. I cannot believe it.

One part of me does remember the grand time I had with him. But the other part of me wants to hang my head in shame, after the first disaster of falling flat on the ground in front of him in such an undignified manner. Plus, I’m now without a job and feel too ashamed to tell him I was fired.

‘I happen to be in your part of town tomorrow evening, and there is a new place owned by a good friend which is being inaugurated tomorrow. All the A-list celebrities will be there and I find these dos boring. But my chore becomes a lot easier if you agree to go with me,’ he persuades.

I still hesitate, but mentally I am thinking that it would be better than sitting at home gloomily, doing nothing on a Friday evening. I have had a really hard week and here is a guy actually asking me out and telling me he enjoyed my company.

‘And we can slip out as soon as the ribbon is cut, go somewhere quiet, you know?’ he persuades even more, as he senses my hesitation.

That does it. Here is a fun opportunity being handed to me on a platter. All I have to do is put the past behind me and say a yes. I do.

‘Oh great then. I’ll see you tomorrow. Pick you up at eight then?’ he says.

I am horrified at the thought of Samir coming home, that too in his fancy car! So I tell him that I will meet him at a place close to my house. And he agrees.

Then I realize that I again have nothing suitable to wear other than Chetana’s discarded clothes. But now I know that I can look good with the right clothes and accessories. There is no way in hell I am again borrowing clothes from Chetana. So I rush to the bank and withdraw the whole of my last month’s salary. I save almost all of it, as I live with my dad, and so my food and accommodation is already taken care of. So I do have a tiny fortune carefully squirrelled away over the years.

I realize that I don’t even know where to go shopping, other than Fashion Street. Somehow I don’t want to wear tacky Fashion-Street imitations and so I make a quick call to Chetana and apprise her of the new situation I am finding myself in,