After the Storm Read online

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Acknowledgements

  References

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To Amma

  who drew me to books

  To Thata

  who told me the tales

  1

  It was a sweltering summer and the oddly shaped house on 56, Olcott Road braced itself for one final wedding. Not everybody under its roof was up for the challenge though. Twenty-two-year-old Meenakshi Iyer surely wasn’t. On the brink of a career and an inexplicably full wedding season, she had made herself scarce after being measured for a padded blouse. It had been a month since she had graduated from a J school with no honours or boyfriends to her credit. The summer stretched before her threatening to offer nothing but sex-starved suitors who had binged on PhDs from Ivy League universities. Suffice to say Meenakshi decided to move away from the scene of crime – her parents’ home in Chennai – to not so far away Mumbai.

  Of course, her thousand and one aunts caved across the seven seas wiggled their fingers at her through web cameras, warning her against entering the hazy world of cigarette-smoking women and Benadryl-snorting boys. ‘It is unsafe, not good for good Iyer girls,’ they said. ‘Why don’t you work at a bank or better still, teach at a school,’ they pleaded.

  But then Meenakshi had never counted herself as a good Iyer girl. So she continued to pack two suitcases, setting their combination lock to the number of days left of the frightfully long summer.

  ‘No Bambayi till you attend Daya’s son’s wedding,’ warned Padma, Meenakshi’s highly kooky mother. Padu’ma, as she was fondly referred to in the Iyer household, was a bizarre woman whose mind suffered from having to vacillate from a Suprabatham chanting woman in the mornings to a Bloody Mary sipping socialite in the evenings.

  In her heyday, she had done something women her generation could have only dreamt of. One night, on hearing the impending departure of her Accounts professor to Madras for an auditing post, the brazen, Bombay-bred Padu’ma had landed on his doorstep, breathless and suitcase-less. As the night drew darker and the planets changed to accommodate the inauspicious arrival of an amavas, she stood at the porch and professed her love to the shrewd, quiet man whose eyes twinkled every time they turned to look her. The shy but intrepid Girish, who had watched from the corner of his eyes the college beauty make googly eyes at him, felt elated. Padu’ma’s family came around to accept the union only because the tall, no-nonsense professor turned out to be an Iyer boy after all.

  Now if only things wrapped up so neatly for her Meenu, Padu’ma would tell herself a couple of times a day. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

  Meenakshi behaved really weird around men. It was as if she couldn’t get enough of them but the moment one of those mangy-looking boys she called friends tried to make a move on her, she ran for the hills.

  Though Padu’ma admitted (only to herself) that her daughter was probably too young for any kind of commitment, she couldn’t help worrying. She thought about a suitable groom while scooping bald white idlis out of the moulds, lighting lamps in the evening and while exercising in lurid swimsuits. Padu’ma, like most Tam-Brahm parents, was wired by a primal instinct, one that pushed her to see her daughter marry a handsome, young man who was either reasonably rich or unreasonably qualified, but never neither. She couldn’t quell this instinct and it now drove her to bully Meenakshi into attending one last wedding for the summer.

  ‘Amma, please!’ begged Meenu. ‘I don’t even know the boy,’ she declared looking out at the beach from the bay window in her bedroom. Getting sunburnt was definitely more enjoyable than posing for the candid photographer the bride had hired.

  ‘Chumma, don’t fuss!’ snapped Padu’ma. ‘You go to your friends’ place on the slightest pretext. Why can’t you meet some nice, normal people?’

  ‘Amma, I don’t want to meet nice, normal people. I don’t want to meet people only,’ Meenu said wryly.

  ‘Happa! What fuss you girls make these days! When we were your age, we just listened to what our parents said.’

  Meenu coughed, her brown eyes beginning to twinkle like her father’s.

  ‘Fine! At least I was a very good girl till I eloped with your father,’ Padu’ma declared more to her dead father than to her daughter. ‘Can’t you just come along and humour me?’ pleaded Padu’ma in a tired voice.

  Meenu looked up at her mother suspiciously. Her mum looked far from tired. In fact, her cheeks looked radiant from her crazy swimsuit workouts. But she doted on her Padu’ma and it was hard to say no to a woman full of good humour and rosy cheeks.

  ‘Seri, I’ll come,’ Meenu relented, regretting her decision immediately for Padu’ma had turned to the green Godrej almirah behind her with childlike glee. At last she could take out the kaanjivarams and kemp stones that lay locked and forgotten during the rest of the year. She now laid out three saris and draped it on Meenu one after the other evaluating the effect.

  ‘Meenu, you look so pretty when you smile,’ she said knowingly. The remark elicited a scowl just as it always had from the time Meenu had been four.

  Two tiny kids dashed into Meenakshi just as she scanned for seats in the wedding hall. Her eyes narrowed for a split second before she crashed lopsidedly, her torso falling neatly into the lap of a young man halfway through his paal payasam.

  The man looked into Meenakshi’s eyes, his own filled with surprise.

  ‘S-sorry!’ Meenakshi sputtered, trying to raise herself from the awkward position in which she had fallen and what she now realised was the man’s rather strong hold. As the young man helped her to her feet, she heard a couple of muffled catcalls. She turned towards her saviour with a look of utter exasperation but the payasam glugging knight seemed to be grinning.

  ‘Bloody sambhar mafia,’ she muttered, trying to regain her step and composure both at once. To her horror, the sari came undone in the front. The young man moved in closer, blocking her from others’ view. Meenakshi could feel his warm breath even as she bent her head, trying to repleat her sari.

  ‘I can see that you are struggling,’ he remarked in a lazy, taunting voice.

  ‘Ever tied a sari yourself?’ demanded Meenu.

  ‘I could if you let me,’ he replied, the ends of his mouth twitching with amusement.

  Meenakshi blushed, right up to her ears.

  The next day, the bell peeled continuously at 56, Olcott Road.

  ‘Somebody get the door,’ pleaded Girish from his study. ‘Chae, not one moment of peace even on a Sunday!’

  ‘Padu’maaaa? Krishna where are you when someone wants you?’ pleaded the harried Girish who now spent his retirement drawing up question papers for accounting students. But all he could hear was his wife’s thunder thighs throbbing against the mosaic flooring above to screechy ABBA.

  The Iyer household consisted of a large house and unkempt grounds that badly needed more people living in it. But the kids, who were now grown up, bared their fangs at the slightest mention of guests staying over. Visitors were welcome. Lodgers – strictly forbidden.

  ‘Appa, I’ll get it,’ said Meenakshi, running her fingers gently through he
r damp straight hair fresh out of a shower. She opened the door. Two kids dashed past her, almost knocking her over. Two other large women – one whom she recognized – brushed past either side of her waist. There was one more visitor.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Remember me?’, he said cocking his head to the side.

  Actually she didn’t. She had been too self-conscious after her fall last evening to notice that her payasam-glugging knight was a rakish looking young man with dark, intelligent eyes.

  Meenakshi returned a half smile, taking in his freshly shaven face.

  ‘I’m Rakesh, Usha aunty’s son,’ he said, slipping his cellphone into the rear pocket of his light blue denims and holding out an arm.

  And just like that, Meenakshi, who prided on her wit, felt tongue-tied. She began to twiddle at the buttons of her kurta, which felt increasingly transparent under the young man’s steady gaze.

  Puzzled by her long silence, he asked with a smile ‘Should I wait for you to let me in or should I just walk past you?’

  Brush past me! begged a voice in Meenakshi’s head. Her ears turned red at her own thoughts, and she managed a ‘Come in, Rakesh. Please.’

  As the two walked in together, their respective mothers studied the effect appreciatively. Rakesh and Meenakshi looked around, avoiding each other’s gaze. A welcome relief came when the kids dashed squarely into his crotch. ‘Someone needs to tie these two up!’ groaned Rakesh, separating the two mowglis firmly with his long, strong arms. Meenakshi looked on, her eyes twinkling wickedly.

  ‘You know who this is,’ demanded Padu’ma, pointing to Rakesh’s mother.

  ‘Usha aunty’s mother-in-law and my mother come from the same village. Practically neighbours!’ exclaimed Padu’ma. ‘Usha and her son now live in Mumbai. Why don’t you show Rakesh around the house, kanna?’ she added, assuming an innocent enough tone.

  ‘Amma, this is not a museum!’ snapped Meenakshi.

  ‘Seri, seri, take him up to your room at least. He’ll feel bored with us,’ said her mother, trying to shush the ‘she walked right into that trap’ feeling.

  Meenakshi led Rakesh upstairs and almost into her room when she remembered that it was strewn with stuff that had not made it into her twin black suitcases. She tried to shut the door but he had already placed his one foot in. He took one look at the room and burst out laughing.

  Meenakshi surveyed her room too for the first time in weeks. It was littered with clothes, notepads, sanitary pads and, oh my god, the padded bras that Padu’ma had gifted her.

  Rakesh quirked an eyebrow.

  ‘I am moving to Mumbai. I just landed my first job,’ explained Meenu. Explain what? Why a new job required padded bras? Oh God! What kind of a job does he think I have landed?

  Rakesh looked at her with newfound interest and remarked, ‘Your mum has my mum’s number. If you’ll need anything in Mumbai, give us a buzz,’ he said, not taking his eyes off her as he walked backwards toward the cot and sat, resting his palms on it.

  An awkward silence followed, broken by a sharp knock. The door opened a bit. A pimply young man stuck his head inside with eyes closed and asked, ‘Meano, you decent?’

  ‘Yesss!’ shouted Meenakshi.

  ‘Sambhar mafia leaving,’ continued her brother, walking in and tumbling next to Rakesh, taking him in through his spectacles.

  ‘That’s you,’ chimed Meenakshi and her brother Krishna, pointing their fingers at a bewildered Rakesh.

  He gave the two a smile and showed himself out.

  The last two weeks of the summer dashed past quickly and before one knew it, Rakesh, newly anointed sambhar mafioso, was driving his mom, Padu’ma, Meenakshi and her brother to the airport in the family car.

  Girish, who was never good with goodbyes, had made himself scarce after giving his Meenu a tight hug and a new smart phone.

  ‘Screw this terminal. Where the hell is the departure gate?’ barked Rakesh to no one in particular, lighting a cigarette and rolling down the driver seat window.

  ‘Rakesh, don’t smoke ippo! We are almost there,’ scolded his mother, giving his head a ruddy smack.

  ‘Amma, please,’ he cried in exasperation, ducking his mother’s heavy hand a second too late.

  ‘I am sorry you had to drive us,’ offered Meenakshi in a low quiet voice. She was seated on the co-driver seat next to Rakesh.

  As the guy inside the blue and red kiosk handed out the parking ticket, he turned to stare at Meenakshi moodily. A couple of days back, he had proposed and she had turned it down. Rakesh had sulked but had come around to drop his mum for one last chat with Padma aunty when he had got talked into chauffeuring the family for its send-off to Meenakshi.

  The inhabitants of the car travelled in silence till they drove to the departure gate. Rakesh got out and ordered Krishna to get a trolley for the two suitcases. As Meenakshi said bye to Usha aunty and hugged her mother, who looked very near to crying, she saw Rakesh light up another fag.

  Padu’ma straightened up suddenly and whispered into her daughter’s ears, ‘Meenu, enjoy your time away from home. Don’t come back with any regrets.’

  ‘Amma, are you asking me to get laid?’ asked Meenakshi wryly.

  ‘Don’t push it, kanna. You are going to be staying with your mama. All eyes on you,’ replied Padu’ma cheerfully. So saying she returned to arguing with Usha over the air hostess’s uniform. ‘Well, I think they look much better now,’ she said, with an air of finality.

  Where the hell is Krishna, thought Meenakshi, hoisting her suitcases to the sidewalk when she sensed Rakesh at her elbow. She turned around and almost bumped into him, when he remarked with a rueful smile,

  ‘Meano, that’s who you really are, isn’t it?’

  ‘Rakesh, I am really sorry. I am not ready to get married yet.’

  ‘That’s okay, I can take a “No”,’ he replied, staring hard at the parking lot behind Meenakshi’s shoulder as if it held more meaning than the woman right before him.

  There you are, cried Padu’ma, pointing at Krishna, who had arrived with the trolley.

  ‘What were you doing? Ogling at the airhostesses?’ she demanded, rolling her eyes.

  ‘What’s the point, Amma?’ grinned back Krishna. After dumping the cases on the trolley, he pushed Rakesh away good naturedly and gave his big sister a big hug. ‘Stay cool and stay mean. And, stop fidgeting. You look nice.’

  ‘I am not fidgeting!’ she replied.

  ‘You are,’ replied Krish, imitating his father’s deep stentorian voice.

  Forcing a kiss from her brother and giving one to her mother, Meenakshi said her final goodbyes, avoiding Rakesh’s gaze all the time. And just like that she walked past the departure gate.

  2

  As Meenakshi trekked up the stairs leading to The Daily Times, tiny little beads of sweat sprung up between her brows. The uncertainty about her first job hung between her brows and she kept wiping the sweat as if to make it disappear.

  In the waiting area, she settled into one of the plush, cappuccino-coloured sofas and waited for the receptionist to turn her attention towards her. She wore her jet black hair in an asymmetrical bob and tinkled, ‘Good Morning, this is The Daily Times,’ into the phone every time it rang. She was striking to look at with her red lips and painted nails and it made Meenakshi tug at her off-white kurta.

  The receptionist was obviously good at her job. Poised and patient, she seemed unperturbed by the incessant ringing of the phone until she had to answer an angry reader who had called to complain about some ‘delusional reporting’ in the morning’s paper. She straightened up from her reposing position, frowned her perfectly arched eyebrows and connected the call to the Editorial, and then banged the phone.

  ‘Fucking idiot! Yeh log ko kaam nahin hai kya, Shersingh?’ she demanded to the security guard who was her only human contact during her shift as the receptionist.

  ‘Matches laaon, madamji?’ Shersingh asked, knowing his madam would need it soo
n, if not now. The burly guard had never seen a woman smoke in his village. Ever. Of course women did take a puff from beedis but no cigarettes.

  ‘So sweet, Shersingh,’ she cooed but she didn’t need the favour. Her fingers had already reached her zippo. Rose engraved. Shersingh blushed. As always. He felt awkward to watch a woman smoke even though it was not an uncommon sight in Mumbai, especially in this building. But then madamji was not like other women, his mind insisted. She was his kudi during morning shifts. Or that is what he told his lodge’s inmates on nights he let his guard down.

  When she returned to her desk, Ms Irani turned her attention to Meenakshi.

  ‘You are here to see…?’ she enquired.

  ‘Shahroukh Mistry. I am a trainee,’ replied Meenakshi.

  ‘It’s half past eight dear. Mistry bawa comes in a little later,’ she added, scanning her computer screen quickly. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Meenakshi Iyer.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, typing rapidly into the keyboard. ‘Just head towards the HR cubicle. They will guide you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Meenakshi, heading towards a glass door. At The Daily Times, a biometric glass door separated the reception lounge from the Editorial, comprising editors, reporters, illustrators, air brushers and dull indoor plants. The marketing team and the canteen occupied the floor above.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ the receptionist said, pushing a bell underneath her desk.

  The bright and warm lights of the reception area gave way to dark, dim interiors. Stark white computer terminals, copy machines and cubicles could be sighted in every direction. A dull blue carpet ran through the entire stretch of the office lending a sombre but perhaps soothing touch to the news frenzy that would pick up in the evening.

  Meenakshi took her time exploring the office and finally arrived at the HR section to find four other trainees busy scratching away at forms. She quickly took the seat nearest and waited for a form to be handed out.

  ‘Hi, I am Chanda Kolamudi,’ said a girl wearing a green, lacy top over a pair of cream pants. Meenakshi was reminded of a large mantis. She smiled back and held her hand out gingerly.