Short Story: Redemption

Alok switched off his laptop and prepared to leave for the day. It was half past seven, another two hours to go before the summer sun set. Actually he could have stayed on at his desk for another hour, but the bells of St. Clements, which was just across the road, had been ringing away to glory for the last fifteen minutes, giving him a massive headache. In any event the leftover work was not due in for another couple of days. There was no point in prolonging his stay in the office when the blasted church bells were making such a din.

Richard was the only other person left in the office. When Alok tucked his laptop into the high security cabinet in the corner, Richard looked up from his desk and asked, ‘leaving for the day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s a change. For once you’re leaving before I do.’

‘I still have some stuff to finish. But these bloody bells are giving me a headache.’

‘Ummm. You’re damn right. You’d think someone would ban this sort of racket in the city.’

Alok continued with his preparations for departure. He put on his jacket and patted the pockets to check that his wallet, keys and oyster card* were in place.

As he walked out, he stopped for a second and asked Richard, ‘I’m going to stop for a drink on the way. Do you want to come along?’

‘Hmmm. Tempting. But not today. I was out late last night and tomorrow’s going to another late night. I’m taking the Winchester gang out tomorrow. And it’s only Tuesday yet.’

‘Never mind. I’ll just have a quick one and push off.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Never mind.’

As Alok closed the door behind him, Richard said, ‘Listen,……’

Alok came back. ‘Hmmm?’

‘Never mind. I’m sorry. I was just wondering if I should just dump this report and come along. But no. I can’t. Sorry.’

‘Never mind.’

‘You could ask Jamie. He’s always up for a drink.’

‘No. Never mind.’

‘Have you asked him already?’

‘No I didn’t. But I heard him say he’s going somewhere.’

‘You should ask out that pretty one on the tenth floor. Isn’t she from your part of the world?’

‘Sort of. Not really. She’s Sri Lankan. I think so anyway.’

‘Is that a big difference? You could still ask her out. I think she fancies you.’

Alok grunted and walked out. He better restart going to the gym and burn off that excess energy which had a tendency to turn into fat on his five feet eight inches frame. It was a criminal waste to pay eighty pounds a month for membership in a gym in the heart of the city and not use it. He would have a quick drink and then go home. He wouldn’t be able to sleep without a glass of wine inside him. It was dangerous he knew, to be in a state where he needed a drink to fall asleep.

He reached the Counting House and looked inside. It was full of people, city types like him, dressed in suits, pinstripes and ties, talking, smiling and laughing, all at once. It took him a full two minutes to make his way to the bar.

‘A glass of wine please. The house white.’

‘Large or small.’

‘Large. No. Make it small.’

He would have a small glass of wine and go home. Richard was right. It was only Tuesday yet. He still had to get through three more days. And then it would be the weekend. The weekend was a pain, but he could always go away somewhere. Take the Eurostar to Paris or catch a flight to Geneva and come back on Sunday. There was something about a different city which made him feel less lonely.

Alok picked up his glass of wine and walked to a corner. He wondered if he ought to pretend he was waiting for someone, but then, he didn’t really care. He sipped his wine and looked around. There was a bloke in his early twenties who looked as if he was genuinely waiting for someone. He would take out his mobile and hold it in front of him to check for messages. Or dial a number, hold the mobile to his ear and then hang up with a shake of his head. Around five minutes later, a young girl came in, looked around and rushed into his arms. Now he was only the only person in the room who was alone.

No, he didn’t mind. Not everyone who was with someone else was happy. There was that blond girl who kept looking at her watch every twenty seconds, waiting for an excuse to leave. The two men and woman she was with were all having a good time, laughing a lot and looking very relaxed. There was a Chinese guy with two tall white men, most probably a visitor from the Beijing or Shanghai branch office being taken out for a drink by his head office colleagues. All three men were smiling all the time, the white men with permanent plastic grins and the Chinese man with a painfully polite smile. I’m sure all three of them would rather be elsewhere, Alok chuckled to himself.

Alok downed the last drops from his glass and walked out. He could do it! Stopping after his first glass was not so difficult. No, he was in no danger of turning into a drunk. He was not one of those men who couldn’t sleep without a few large glasses of liquor in their stomachs. Not someone who binge-drank even without any company.

He reached Bank station and took the Northern Line to Kings Cross St. Pancras from where he switched to the Piccadilly Line. Barely ten minutes later, he got off at Holloway Road. As he left the station and started the ten-minute walk to his flat, a man walked past him and spoilt it all. He was a man in his late thirties, with his mobile phone to his ear.

‘Honey, I’ll home in five minutes,’ the man said. And then he added, ‘Has he slept yet?’ The pain hit Alok with the force of a gale. He had done that so many times before. Honey I’ll be home in an hour’s time. Darling, I’ve just got off the tube. I’ll be home in ten minutes. Has Sagan slept yet? He would ask. And Chaaya would say, No, he’s still waiting up for you. Come home soon.

Alok clutched his stomach and bent down in the middle of the footpath. If only that man hadn’t asked about his child! Just to think that he had almost made it home after a single small glass of wine! He straightened up and, despite the pain, started to walk forward once more. The pain eased in a few minutes and he took a few deep breaths. But he now desperately needed another drink.

He shifted his body slightly so that some additional weight was transferred to his right leg. As he walked forward, he stomped his right leg down with each alternate step he took. If only he had the courage to chop off his right leg! He hated his right leg intensely. If only it had been quicker on the brakes that night when they were all driving back, he would be going back home to Sagan and Chaaya. He definitely ought to chop off his leg. No, not by himself! No! He was a coward, incapable of something like that. But he could go to a doctor and get it amputated. He would then get himself one of those artificial contraptions and get by. It was a really good idea. He had absolutely no use for his right leg. He had sold the BMW after the accident, or what was left of it and not bought another car. God, he would never buy a car or even drive again. The pain returned to his guts and leg with full vigour.

Before long, he found a pub. It was one to which he had never been to. It looked a little rowdy even from outside and when he went inside, he found it to be fully packed. God! He ought to have stayed on at the Counting House with all those safe and boring bankers inside and had a few more drinks before he left. If only he had stayed on for a second drink, he wouldn’t have had to listen to that idiot’s conversation which had now ruined his evening.

He made his way to the bar, a task which took him almost five minutes, even though he only had to cover a few metres. ‘A bottle of white wine,’ he ordered.

‘Any wine?’

‘What’s your house white?’

‘Chardonnay.’

‘Yes, I’ll go for a bottle of Chardonnay.’

‘One glass? Two glasses?’

‘Just one glass please.’ The bartendress gave him a strange look. She had half a dozen piercings in each ear and her eyes had red highlighting.

Alok looked around him. The men were all focussed on a football game shown on two large TV screens kept in the room. No wonder the pub was packed. Arsenal was playing one of those Spanish clubs, it seemed. Alok was not a football fan, despite having lived in the UK for almost ten years. At one point he had tried to work up some enthusiasm for soccer, even deciding on ManU as his favourite team, but he hadn’t had much success. And after the accident, he had given up his budding passion for soccer all together. And it was not just football, he was not even interested in cricket these days.

Alok took his wine bottle and glass to an empty table which did not have a view of the TV screens. It was clear that he was the only one in the pub who was not an Arsenal fan. He poured himself a drink and took a big gulp. God! He needed the drink. He would have to get drunk tonight before he went home. There was no way on earth he could go home in a sober state. He ought to give up that flat and move elsewhere. It was more than a year now, but he could still smell the smells and hear the sounds as he walked in.

When Alok was half-way through his bottle, he realised that the men were not staring at the screens anymore. Instead, they were talking loudly among themselves. The game must be at half-time, he realised.

‘You, over there, you ain’t one of us, right?’

Alok knew the drill. ‘No,’ he said with a small shake of his head, giving the hooligan the most polite smile possible. He then looked down and sat very still. It was so, so very stupid of him to have walked into a pub of this sort on the day of a big football match.

‘That fancy stuff. It ain’t do you much good,’ a man standing three feet away from said. Someone threw an empty beer can at him, missing him by a few feet. There was some derisory laughter. Alok was not too frightened. There was a security camera pointing vaguely in his direction and in any event, the chances of anyone assaulting him within the pub was not very high. The football fans just wanted to have some fun. However, he ought to leave now, if he had any sense. He could take the bottle of wine with him and go home and drink it there. The men were unlikely to follow him out of the pub till the game got over. No, he would wait till the interval got over and then leave once the men started looking at the TV screens again.

A man walked past him and trod lightly on his right foot, as he walked past. ‘I’m sorry mate,’ he apologised with mock solemnity.

‘Fuck you,’ Alok shouted back as his right leg throbbed with intense pain.

‘We got a brave un ere,’ the man shouted to his friends. ‘Why don’t you come outside and we could settle matters to our satisfaction?’ he asked Alok.

A small crowd gathered around Alok. He quickly finished off his glass and said, ‘I never fight until I finish my second bottle.’

Someone spat on his face from a distance of three feet. There were giggles. ‘Why don’t you bastards go watch your miserable game? When it’s over, we’ll all go outside.’ Alok told the crowd in general.

‘Deal. It’s a deal. Oh! You be one big, brawny brave un, I swear.’ Someone came over and patted him on his back with genuine affection.

Alok was scared, but the pain in his right leg gave him courage. But he might as well get properly drunk before he went out. He poured the last bit of wine into his glass and started drinking.

‘Ten quid says he will not stay on his feet for more than a minute.’ The men started placing bets on him. By now Alok was really scared, but it was too late to do anything much. He could try and call the police, but if the crowd saw him take out his mobile, they’d tear him to pieces. He wondered if any of the bartenders would do anything. Very unlikely! He ought to have stayed at the Counting House!

Thankfully the match started and the men stopped paying him much attention. Alok finished his glass and went up to the bar for another bottle of Chardonnay.

‘The bastard’ll get too drunk,’ some one yelled, but no one did anything to him. In fact, they actually made way for him to get to the bar and go back to his seat. What was that story he had read many years ago when he was in college from Steinbeck’s Long Valley collection? The Raid? Two labour organisers were about to be lynched by a mob. It won’t hurt. Not one bit, the senior one amongst the two men had told the other. It must be true. He desperately hoped that it wouldn’t hurt.

A collective aaaagghh went up. The other side must have scored against Arsenal, Alok thought. He realised that he wanted to, or rather ought to, take a leak. Maybe he could call the police emergency number from the loo. As he got up someone noticed and said, ‘the wog’s a-leavin.’

‘Just to the gents,’ Alok pointed to the sign saying Toilets and gave the mob a big smile. A tall and clean shaven man walked up to him and roughly shoved him back to his seat. Alok stood up once more, but now he was feeling very light-headed. He was pushed back into his seat once more.

‘Fuck you bastard,’ he screamed at the man.

‘Just wait you monkey, I’m gonna tear you up inna tiny lil pieces.’

There was nothing much to do other than to sit back and drink. After a few minutes, Alok felt warm piss dribbling out of him to the seat. Soon it became a torrent. It didn’t matter, did it? Soon, nothing would matter.

There was one more collective exclamation and a few seconds of stunned silence. ‘Two down and just ten more minutes to go,’ he heard a commentator say on TV. Alok considered dashing to the door and making good his escape. He stood up and realised that he was reasonably drunk, but the place was still jam packed and unless they made way for him, he was going nowhere.

‘Why don’t we go out now?’ a man turned around and suggested to him.

‘That’ll be more fun than watching this shit,’ his neighbour agreed.

Alok quickly drank the last of his wine and picked up his bag. He was quite drunk, but he was very scared too. Should he put up the pretence of a fight? No, it would be best to go down quickly. No, he would stay on his feet, for if he went down, they might kick him to death.

‘Ready mate?’ a man asked him with the sort of kindness and affection one would show to a prize bull being sent into a bull fighting ring .

‘Giv’im an ‘ed start,’ someone suggested and they quickly made way for him to leave. There was not much to do, but to start running. Alok wanted to laugh. Sagan and Chaaya must have suffered a lot more when they crashed. If only Sagan hadn’t made a big fuss and insisted on sitting in front, he might have been saved. No, if Sagan had not insisted on sitting in front, Chaaya would have sat where Sagan sat. If only his right leg had pressed the brakes two seconds earlier, if only…

As the cold air hit him, Alok realised that he was now out of the pub. He started to run along the pavement, back to the tube station rather than towards his home, his heart thudding with fear and his head throbbing. If only he could get to the station, there would be people and security cameras around! The summer sun had disappeared and the footpath was deserted and dark. If only he had waited till the game was over, there would have been a lot of people on the streets and somebody might have saved him from the mob. He was such a fool. He should have had two or three more drinks at the Counting House, got slightly drunk and then gone home. He might not even have paid much attention to the man with the mobile phone.

There was no other sound for a few moments after which he heard a howl as ten or eleven men rushed after him.

The glancing blow to his head was not meant to drop him to the ground, but Alok did go down. He lay on the ground and waited for them to kick him, hoping they would kick his right leg. Instead, they solicitously helped him to his feet and then someone punched on his nose. He went down again, only to be propped up once more. This time it was a fist in his stomach. The dull pain he felt was more because he was scared and breathless, rather than from the blows.

‘You dirty Paki,’ someone said and laughed aloud. He was cuffed on the head by someone. Alok staggered around like a headless chicken. They were having fun with him. Why didn’t they get over with it?

‘Kick his sweet brown arse!’ And someone obligingly kicked him from behind.

‘You bloody bastards,’ Alok shouted through his bleeding mouth and rushed at the man closest to him, swinging his bag which he still held in his hand. The man he rushed at, a short squat man with a crew cut, neatly sidestepped him and punched him on his jaw. This time Alok went down with a heavy thud.

Someone kicked him in his stomach. There was some laughter. An African man came up to him and asked, ‘where next?’ There were more hoots of laughter. He felt a kick to his ribs, there were more kicks on his back and shoulders and then he lost consciousness.

When he came to, he was in the hospital. A nurse was standing next to him. He lips were swollen and he could barely speak.

‘How do you feel, m’dear?’ she asked him.

Alok regarded the nurse for a moment. There was something very important that he wanted to know. What was it? He wracked his brains for the answer.

‘Are you in pain?’ the nurse asked him.

‘What are the damages?’ Alok replied.

The nurse was a young woman with a very kind face. She took a deep breath and said, ‘two broken ribs, a broken nose, two front teeth broken, your collar bone is cracked and …. and … your knee cap is busted. It’ll be a while before you can walk again.’

‘Which knee cap?’ Alok earnestly asked.

The nurse did not understand him.

‘Which knee cap?’ he asked again. ‘Right or left?’ There was no sensation in either of his legs.

‘Why do you ask? Oh! It’s the right one,’ the nurse informed Alok.

It took Alok a few second to digest the information after which, to the nurse’s shock and astonishment, a slow smile spread across his bruised, swollen lips.
________________________________________

*A prepaid electronic card used to travel on the London underground.

Book Review: Starfishing by Nicola Monaghan

Starfishing is the story of Frankie Cavanagh, an ambitious, smart and pretty girl from Ilford (a working class district in the north east of Greater London) who manages to get away from her father and go to the City, as the square mile in east-central London where banks, insurance companies and stock brokers are crammed in, is called. Frankie’s dad wants her to marry a man who drives a white van and have kids. When an Ilford girl or an Essex girl (Frankie tells us that there is a difference between the two) goes to the City, it is usually to work as a secretary and find a husband. Instead Frankie gets a derivatives trader’s job.

Starfishing is also the story of a girl who craves for excitement and lives life to the fullest. Frankie drinks like a fish, does drugs of all kinds and has an affair with her married boss Tom Philips. Frankie doesn’t do ‘love’ however. Or does she?

Starfishing is a thriller since Frankie and Tom take all sorts of risks, ranging from doing a ‘runner’ after a meal in a restaurant to stealing liquor from a store. You keep wondering if Frankie and Tom will get ever caught since the risks they take keep getting more and more dangerous.

The year is 1997 and the London International Financial Futures and Options Exchange (“LIFFE”) still follows the open outcry system whereby trading is done in pits by traders wearing colourful jackets (which identify their employer). All the traders are men, very chauvinistic men and Frankie is sexually harassed almost every minute. Once in a while Frankie goes to the toilet and breaks down, but most of the time she holds her own and even gives back in equal measure. Granted that an open pit for derivatives trading in the City is likely to be one of the most chauvinistic places in London, it’s still difficult to believe how different and difficult things were for women until less than ten years ago. Monaghan, the author of this novel, used to be a trader in the City and I assume her description of such a harsh working environment is generally accurate.

Starfishing is the story of a bunch of hedonistic traders who live in an amoral world, where gambling is a way of life. Gambling goes on not only in the open pits during trading hours, but also after work in pubs and restaurants and elsewhere. The open pit traders at LIFFE ought to have known that with the advent of electronic exchanges, in particular the German exchange, the Deutsche Termin Boerse, their way of life is about to come to an end, but they don’t, so wrapped up they are in themselves and so staunch is their faith in the efficiency and superiority of the open outcry system.

The best part of Starfishing is the ending, which is rather unexpected but you’ll have to read this book to find out.

Short Story: The Henpecked CEO

I heard a senior manager, I think it was Tushar, refer to Sandeep as a “poor henpecked chappie” a day after I joined Meevar Financial Consultants. I dismissed Tushar’s comment as a joke and thought no more about it till that evening when Sandeep took us out to Geoffrey’s at the Marine Plaza for a drink. There were twelve of us management trainees and Sandeep, the big boss, the CEO. I think Sandeep was around fifty-five at that time, more than twice as old as most of us. He was a small-built man with a large paunch and a jovial air, which made him eerily similar to one of my uncles.

But unlike my uncle, Sandeep Nayyar was a legend in Mumbai. Everyone who had anything to do with stock and shares or the stock exchange had heard of him. Meevar’s shareholders worshipped him for the obscenely high dividends it routinely declared and journalists praised him almost everyday in the financial press. Sandeep was reputed to be the man with the Midas touch. Every business venture he launched so far had been successful. Naturally, all of us were in awe of him.

Barely had we started sipping our drinks when Sandeep’s mobile rang.

‘I’m at Geoffrey’s,’ Sandeep told the person at the other end. ‘With the current batch of trainees. You know, the ones who started this week.’

‘No, I won’t be staying for long.’

‘Okay, I’ll call you when I am ready to leave.’

‘I mean, I won’t take too long.’

Sandeep put his mobile phone, a Motorola L2000 Tri-band, one of the hippest phones in those days, back in his pocket and continued chatting with us. He had a large fund of stories which were very entertaining, stories of the great deals he had cut and the stuff he had done to drum up business in his initial days. Everyone listened to him with rapt attention. We laughed uproariously at each of his jokes. Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that we were out to insincerely flatter Sandeep. Our laughter was entirely genuine, since all of us hoped to emulate Sandeep at some point in our careers and in such a case, it was very easy to enjoy his stories and laugh at his jokes. I do remember that one of my fellow trainees, a girl with a monkey cut, kept gushing every time she spoke to Sandeep.

‘Ooooohhh, no sir, no sir, I don’t drink sir,’ she would say.

‘But you’re already drinking,’ Sandeep pointed to the orange juice in her glass.

The girl giggled in reply. ‘Yessir, I am.’

‘Are you sure you won’t try a little bit of vodka and lime cordial?’

‘Yes sir, I mean, no sir, I’m sure sir. Can I have a lemonade sir?’

‘Young lady, you shouldn’t mix your drinks,’ Sandeep told her to the accompaniment of guffaws and loud laughter from all around.

Just like Sandeep, all the men had vodka with lime cordial. There was only one other woman in the group and I think she too ordered a vodka, took a sip or two and drank nothing else for the rest of the evening. Sandeep was very chivalrous to the two women. He made sure the circulating canapés and peanut bowls reached them occasionally and would smile and nod at them a lot more than he did at anyone else. I think I was a little jealous of the two women.

And then Sandeep’s mobile rang again.

‘Yes, I’m still here.’

‘When are you coming home?’ Sandeep’s wife’s stern voice was so loud all of us could hear her very well.

‘Another twenty minutes?’

Sandeep gave all of us a weak smile. ‘My wife gets very nervous when she is alone in the house after it’s dark,’ he told us. None of us questioned that statement. No one asked him, ‘don’t you have servants in your house?’ Has anyone heard of a Sensex* company’s CEO whose household doesn’t have at least two full-time servants? But no, we did not challenge Sandeep.

Exactly twenty minutes later Sandeep’s phone rang once more. ‘Haven’t you left yet?’ his wife demanded even before he could say hello!’

‘I’m leaving. We’re all leaving,’ Sandeep told her and looked at the only guy who was yet to finish his drink, forcing him to down it in a gulp.

I was very soon immersed in the world of stock-broking and making investments on behalf of clients. I practically forgot all about the hard time Sandeep’s wife gave him that evening, till around a month later I was reminded of it. I was having lunch with a colleague, our lunches having been delivered by one of Mumbai’s ubiquitous dabbawallahs.

‘Do you get along with Lalita?’ he asked me.

‘Yeah, sort of,’ I laughed. Lalita was Sandeep’s secretary and all minions at Meevar did their best to make friends with her. No, I wouldn’t say it was de rigueur for survival, but it was one of those things which made our lives a little bit easier.

‘Funny, isn’t it? Sandeep has got Lalita and everyone else has got …. well you know.’

I did know. Lalita was old. She was almost as old as Sandeep, the oldest secretary in the office, whilst every other senior manager had a reasonably young and attractive secretary.

‘It’s a disgrace,’ my friend. ‘And on top of all that, she is so slow.’

‘Is she that bad?’ I asked.

‘The other day I wanted her to tell me if Sandeep will be free to meet a client for lunch next Tuesday, and she took ages to open up outlook and give me the info.’

I was silent at this bit of information. So far, other than trying to chat up Lalita, I had never tested her professionally.

Then my friend dropped his bombshell. ‘Apparently, Sandeep’s wife will not let him hire a younger secretary.’

‘You don’t say! I can’t believe it. What’s her problem in life?’

‘I don’t know. But this is what I’ve heard.’

I laughed. It was such a joke. Sandeep Nayyar, one of the most prominent men in the Mumbai financial market, was in mortal fear of his wife.

‘He is henpecked, isn’t he?’ I asked my colleague.

‘There’s no other word for it.’

I could imagine Sandeep’s wife sitting at home, full of pimples and grey hair, throwing tantrums, occasionally sobbing her heart out, insisting that he should not have a pretty secretary. Poor Sandeep, full of pity for his life-long companion, unable to be firm with her, giving in to all her stupid demands, just to keep her quiet and to get some peace of mind.

Soon over a period of time, further stories of how Sandeep suffered at the hands of his wife reached my ears. Apparently she never allowed him to travel outside Mumbai on work. And if he did, she would go with him. There was another story of how Sandeep’s wife went to a restaurant where Sandeep was having dinner with a senior lady journalist and insisted that he go home with her without even finishing his dinner.

All this didn’t make sense to me. Why on earth did Sandeep put up with it? Why didn’t he tell his wife to take a hike? I knew by now that Sandeep had a ruthless streak in him. Non-performers at Meevar were summarily sacked without mercy. The jovial and friendly exterior was reserved for clients and new beginners at Meevar.

Soon, I reached the end of my management training. Two weeks before it officially ended, I received an envelope from the HR department informing me that I would be starting as an assistant manager in the non-discretionary portfolio management services division. Of the twelve management trainees taken on that year, two guys failed to make the cut. The rest of us went out to the Opium Den at the Oberoi to celebrate.

‘We ought to have invited Sandeep to join us,’ someone said.

‘And we should have paid for his drink,’ another suggested. ‘He took us out when he started our training.’

‘If we invited him here and offered to pay for his drink, he might have ended up paying for ours.’

‘A bit too late for all that now,’ I said.

‘I’m glad Sandeep isn’t here,’ one of my fellow trainees whispered to me. This was the girl who had refused to drink vodka at Geoffrey’s, despite Sandeep doing his best to persuade her. I noticed that she now had a single malt whiskey in her hand.

‘Why do you say that,’ I asked shocked beyond words.

‘Well, he is quite nice, but you know, he does ..’

‘He does what?’ I asked. I was mildly annoyed.

‘He has his weaknesses.’

‘What weaknesses?’

‘He is up to his tricks all the time.’

‘What tricks?’

‘Well, you know, he does not miss an opportunity to place his arm on my shoulder or to pat me on the back or to .. well, nothing really bad, but you know, these are things one can do without.’

It was funny how I had missed this stuff. Or maybe I had and I had glossed over it. ‘Oh! I hadn’t noticed,’ I said with a shrug of my shoulders. ‘Maybe he is driven to do all this because of his wife,’ I added.

‘But, it’s the other way around,’ my colleague interjected. ‘Sandeep used to have affairs all the time till one day his wife found out. At that time, he was going on with his secretary, a pretty young thing. She forced him to fire her and hire Lalita, and from then on she keeps tabs on him. She makes a fuss if he is late, never lets him travel or even go out with female colleagues, unless he can convince her that it is absolutely necessary.’

‘This just shows that he is a nice guy. Any other person in his place would have divorced his wife and gone his own sweet way.’

‘Ah! But Sandeep Nayyar can’t do that. You see, in order to avoid paying tax, he kept most of his shares and other properties in his wife’s name. Now if he were to ditch her, he’ll lose half his wealth. Do you get the picture?’

‘I see. So he is stuck, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. He will be henpecked all his life.’

Short Story: Second Thoughts

Rajat could not believe his eyes as his taxi sped along Yari Road, less than half a mile away from his destination. However, there could be no mistaking the signature page boy hairstyle of the woman who was purposefully striding forward on the footpath to his left. The extra large pair of red-rimmed glasses which she wore, the red handbag she carried, this definitely had to be Nandita Altoo, Rajat was sure, even though he had met her only once before. The chances of another woman in Bombay matching Nandita's appearance was almost zero. It was a year ago that a friend had pointed out Nandita to him at a restaurant. The same friend who persuaded him to apply for a job at Bolly-Would You? Since the traffic was particularly bad that morning, the taxi's pace matched Nandita's. Rajat toyed with the idea of getting out of the taxi and introducing himself to Nandita as she walked to Bolly-Would You?'s offices. No, it wouldn't do. What was he to tell Nandita? Nandita was a woman of immense energy who formed strong opinions very quickly, his friend had told him. Rajat dismissed his crazy idea. He was much more likely to irritate her than gain brownie points.

As Nandita walked around a bulky red post box which occupied a large cross-section of the pavement, a teenager on a rickety bicycle, most probably working for one of the shopkeepers in that area, came up at great speed and collided with Nandita. The red handbag in Nandita's right hand and the plastic folder in her left went flying, while the great Nandita Altoo herself fell down. The cyclist was forced to dismount, but within a few seconds, he took flight from the scene of disaster.

'Stop the car,' Rajat ordered the taxi driver immediately as befitted a film journalist who prided himself on his ability to size up a situation and take quick action.

The taxi screeched to a halt twenty metres away from the fallen Nandita who was slowly gathering herself.

'Wait for me. I'll be back in a minute.'

Rajat rushed towards Nandita hoping that no one else would beat him to it. For all he knew, some other candidate who was also to be interviewed by Nandita today was rushing towards Nandita to help her. Who wouldn't want to work for "Bolly-Would You?" and Nandita Altoo, one of the greatest film journalists ever?

'Madam, are you alright?'

'Do I look like I am?' Rajat was thrilled at the biting rejoinder which was so like Nandita's weekly gossip column, which made liberal use of the word 'darling' and spewed venom on all and sundry.

'Let me help you madam.' Rajat offered his hand to Nandita who ignored it and got up on her own.

As soon as Nandita was safely on her feet, Rajat picked up the red hand bag and gave it to her. He then picked up the plastic folder which was lying two feet away. Fortunately for Rajat, the plastic folder had been open and half the papers inside had fallen out. Rajat scurried around and picked up the various pieces of paper, put them inside the folder and gave it to a still shell-shocked Nandita. Rajat considered introducing himself to Nandita, but then decided against it. No, he was a just helping a fellow human-being in distress. He would do it for anyone in the same situation, wouldn't he?

With celebrities, it doesn't make sense to say a single unnecessary word, Rajat knew from experience. They never listened to you. And Nandita Altoo was a celebrity for the likes of him. With a 'I hope you are not hurt' and a 'Goodbye', Rajat went back to his taxi which took him to Bolly-Would You?'s offices.

'Thank you young man,' Nandita called after him. Rajat managed to control himself and did not turn around to acknowledge Nandita's thanks.

Thirty minutes later, Rajat was ushered into a spacious room where he was to be interviewed. The interviewer was a deputy editor at Bolly-Would You? The interview was a breeze. Rajat had five years of solid experience with India's second best movie magazine and he handled all questions with aplomb. After that, they made him wait for two hours before Nandita interviewed him in her office. Unlike the earlier conference room, Nandita's study was crammed with books, journals, papers and other clutter. Five minutes after the interview started, Nandita asked him, 'aren't you the one who helped me this morning?'

'Well yes, I am.'

'Did you know it was me when you helped me?'

'No Nandita, I did not.' Nandita had started the interview by insisting that he call her Nandita. Everyone at Bolly-Would You? called her by her name. She hated being called madam. As if she ran one of those bawdy establishments, she told Rajat.

'You had no idea it was me when you got out of that taxi to help me?'

'No Nandita, I was only doing what I would do for any one in such a situation. It was only when I met you five minutes ago that I realised that it was you that I had helped. I hope you were not hurt by the fall. Did you ….'

'You are in a taxi on your way to an interview, you see a woman on a sidewalk being knocked down by a bicycle, you get off your taxi and go to help her. You say that you do that sort of thing all the time?'

Rajat was tempted to smile and admit he had lied. But for some reason he struck to his guns. After all, there was no reason why Nandita should think he had recognised her when he came out to help her. She was well-known known amongst journalists by reputation but her photographs never appeared anywhere and she never attended press conferences.

'Oh yes I do. I get teased by my friends all the time because of such things I do.'

'So if you are on your way to an important assignment, and you see someone in trouble, you will stop by to help that person?'

Now this was getting to be a nuisance. Rajat had expected profuse gratitude as soon as Nandita recognised him.

'No, of course not. My work is all-important. But if I am on a personal errand, then I usually stop.' There, that ought to satisfy the great Nandita Altoo, Rajat felt.

'Get Out,' Nandita told him. She got up from her chair to do so. 'And don't ever apply to Bolly-Would You? as long as I am the editor here. Get Out'

Rajat was shocked. Was it too late for him to admit that he was not really the altruistic guy that he claimed to be? The angry expression on Nandita's face said it was. There was nothing to be done, but to leave.

As Rajat walked out dejected, Nandita came forward to shut the door behind him. As she did so, she brushed against a tall pile of papers perched perilously on top of a drawer. The papers fell down with a thud and scattered all over the room.

Rajat turned around. No, it was not his doing. No reason for him to waste any more time in that crazy establishment run by that nutty woman.

'Can you please help me pick these up?' Nandita asked him sweetly.

'I'm sorry Nandita. I must be back at my office soon. Nice to have met you. Good bye.' Rajat slammed the door shut behind him and walked out.

Nandita came running after him, down the carpeted corridor. 'Rajat! Rajat! Stop! Come back Rajat! Come back! After she caught up with Rajat, Nandini said, 'Rajat, on second thoughts, I think there is still some hope for you. Come back to my room. Let's continue with the interview.'