Falling into Place Page 2

  “Tara?”

  The first thing Tara noticed about the woman who had hailed her was her faded cotton drawstring skirt. It had a maroon-and-black zigzag design and was almost identical to one Tara had owned a good decade or so ago. Faded or not, this woman carried it off pretty well. Tara glanced up to lock eyes with her cab-napping acquaintance from last week, who seemed to be waiting for Tara to say something.

  What was her name?

  “Sameen,” the woman offered brightly. “We shared a cab the other day, remember?”

  Shared was one way of putting it. Tara smiled and said hello, abashed that she must have looked clueless.

  “I must apologize,” Sameen continued, “again. Not just for jumping into your taxi, but also, I completely forgot to pay you.”

  “That’s no problem,” Tara said, taking her change from the man behind the counter. “I didn’t have to go out of my way or anything.”

  “No, but still. I must pay you. How much was the fare?”

  “Really, it’s not a problem.”

  “I insist!”

  Tara looked around a little desperately. “My, er, office picks up the tab.” A little white lie, but surely justifiable in the circumstances.

  “Oh.” Sameen, who had produced her wallet, appeared crestfallen. Then she brightened. “You must let me treat you to a coffee, then.”

  “Oh, but you don’t have to.”

  “I want to! Are you free right now?”

  “Er…I…um, how about tomorrow?”

  Sameen peered at her for a second. “After work, then? Around seven? At that new coffee place next to Rimpy’s?”

  Tara realized there was no escape. “Sure.”

  But that afternoon in her office, she did fret about it to her best friend and colleague, Barkha.

  “I’m telling you,” Tara said, “I think she’s stalking me.”

  Barkha looked her up and down. “Why?”

  Tara put her hands on her hips. “What do you mean why? You don’t think I’m stalk-able?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would anyone want to be stalk-able?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You said, ‘You don’t think I’m stalk-able?’” Barkha leaned across Tara’s desk to dip her hand into the packet of potato chips. She crunched noisily.

  “That’s because of how you looked at me and what you said.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You said… Oho, stop it! You’re derailing the conversation.”

  “You’re boring me.” Barkha picked the packet of chips out of Tara’s hand and studied its contents. “You’re obsessed with this woman.”

  “I’m not!”

  Barkha looked up at the ceiling, popping a large chip into her mouth. “Then why do you think someone you’ve met twice is stalking you?”

  “It’s just that I get this really crazy vibe from her.”

  “Oh Tara, you wouldn’t get a vibe if it came and sat in your lap,” Barkha said with a dismissive wave. “Remember what happened that time when we dropped so many hints about—”

  Tara snatched the bag of chips back and got up. “Get your own snacks.”

  “Nooo, don’t go.” Barkha got up to follow her. “Tell me more.”

  “No!”

  “Pleeeease.”

  They went down the stairs, arguing all the way, and out to the narrow alley just round the corner where the tea stall was located. The makeshift structure consisted of a blue tarpaulin held up by thick bamboo sticks. The side of the office building made up the back of the stall, while the other three sides were open. One corner was occupied by a wobbly, run-down table whose front was an aluminium sheet with an ad for Pepsi on it. A large pan sat on the stove on the table, where Ramu, the proprietor, was making his special masala tea, which, according to Tara, was the best in the world. She took a deep breath, taking in the smell of ginger and cardamom. The table also held a few aluminium kettles, used and clean glasses, and a couple of trays strewn about. Two long wooden benches were placed in front of the stall, at right angles to the table.

  Barkha plonked herself on one of the benches, which was unoccupied. An empty bench was a rare occurrence in this city of tea lovers. Tara ordered two glasses of masala tea, while Barkha lit up for a quick smoke.

  “Okay, let’s review the situation. Who jumps into a stranger’s cab?” Tara said, trying to figure out which side of Barkha she should sit on to make sure the breeze wouldn’t blow smoke on her face. It was always tricky, because if she sat too far away, the noise from the traffic, the hammering of the cobbler on his anvil, and the azan from the mosque—which was going to start any minute now—would make conversation impossible.

  “You said she knew you lived close by.”

  “Still. Would you get in a stranger’s cab?”

  Barkha narrowed her eyes as she took a long, slow drag. “Well…”

  “Don’t answer that,” Tara interjected, realizing something like that would be just up Barkha’s alley. “Don’t you think it’s a bit creepy that she knew me? Then she turned up yesterday at the vegetable shop too.”

  The boy from the tea stall came over with their tiny glasses of tea. “No school today?” Tara asked him.

  He grinned and shook his head. “Holiday.”

  She handed him a fifty-rupee note.

  “To be fair,” Barkha said as the boy counted out change, “she was trying to pay you for the ride. Which she should have done that day itself.”

  “But she chose not to. Maybe so she could seek me out later.”

  Barkha sighed. “You’re quite convinced she’s up to no good, right? Where did she say she worked?”

  “Stone Apple Books.”

  Barkha drank down her piping-hot tea at top speed and stubbed her cigarette out. “Come on,” she said and sped towards the office.

  “Hey,” Tara called out, looking alternately at Barkha’s retreating back and the scalding glass of tea in her hand.

  By the time she’d finished her tea and returned to her desk, there was no sign of Barkha. Since it was a slow day, she went down the corridor and into the large cubicle that comprised the HR department, and found her friend hunched over her computer. She looked up at Tara and beckoned her over.

  “Look, I’ve found her—Sameen Siddiqi, commissioning editor, since 2013.”

  “I can see you are taking your assistant-HR-managerly duties very seriously.”

  Barkha switched to another tab. “And here’s her Facebook page—who’s that guy?”

  Tara leaned forward, interested despite herself. “That must be the boyfriend whose birthday she said it was.”

  They spent a silent few minutes checking out Sameen’s Facebook timeline.

  “She looks pretty normal to me,” Barkha said.

  “Having a boyfriend and a job, and being a weirdo are not mutually exclusive,” Tara reminded her.

  “Okay, then, I give up.” Barkha threw up her hands. “Congratulations, you have a stalker.”

  Tara rolled her eyes and went back to her desk, wondering what her next encounter with the crazy cab lady would bring.

  Sameen opened the door to her house and walked in. The first thing she noticed was the new yellow tube light. She smiled. Rohan had replaced the harsh white light she hated with one of the “warm” light ones. She loved how it softened the edges of the room and turned the mishmash of furniture she and Rohan owned into one eclectic collection.

  They were lucky to have landed this house. For Sameen it was definitely a step up from the poky little place she’d been in before. They even had an extra bedroom, albeit tiny, that Rohan could use as his workspace, and that balcony was great for parties.

  The second thing she noticed was the delicious smell. She sniffed, intrigued, and called out, “Hey, I’m home.”
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br />   “In the kitchen,” Rohan said.

  Of course. Where else would he be at this time of the day if he was home?

  She dumped her bag on the sofa and went into the kitchen. Rohan was in front of the stove, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, attire that always made him look irresistible. He had his “decent” apron wrapped around his middle, the one that didn’t have a rude message in Hindi on it. That meant he was cooking something exotic. She came closer and put her arms around his waist from behind.

  “What’s cooking?” she asked.

  Rohan turned in Sameen’s arms and planted a kiss on her lips. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Won’t you even give me a hint?” She tried looking over his shoulder at the pan on the burner.

  “Nope.” Rohan blocked her view. “Go freshen up while I make you a drink. What’s it going to be today? Wine or whisky?”

  “It feels like a whisky day.”

  “Right. Get out of here now.” He gently shoved her towards the door and turned back to the stove.

  Sameen blew a raspberry at him.

  By the time she’d changed, Rohan had finished cooking and was sitting on the sofa with his gin and tonic, flipping through one of his architecture books. Sameen sat next to him, resting her head against his shoulder. She took a sip of the whisky he handed her and put the glass on the table.

  “What did you do today, apart from cooking me a mysterious meal?” she asked. “And when are we going to eat?”

  “Soon, greedy pig. I got a new job, by the way. The client wants me to create a mini Stonehenge in his sprawling garden in Gurgaon.” Rohan shook his head. “I have the most bizarre job in the world.”

  “After your Japan stint, I’m sure you’ll find better clients, and you can be well rid of the weird ones.”

  “Speaking of weirdos, how did it go with the cover designer?”

  “Ugh.” Sameen shuddered. “He refuses to make any changes regardless of whether it goes with the subject of the book. I spent the whole day negotiating with him. I swear, he has a pea-sized brain and a planet-sized ego. God, I’m so exhausted.”

  Rohan put his arm around her and gently squeezed. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, swigging their drinks.

  This is the life, Sameen thought, feeling pleasantly drowsy. Idiot cover designers or not, she did love her job. And—no question about it—Rohan was the best boyfriend in the world.

  Sameen was almost asleep when Rohan spoke. His voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. “Didn’t get a chance to scare anyone in a cab today?”

  She roused herself. “Ha ha. Very funny. Speaking of which, I met Tara, the woman whose cab I shared, at Safal this morning. I’m taking her to coffee tomorrow evening.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I thought since I didn’t pay my share of the taxi fare…”

  “Wow. Not only are you a cab-napper, but you’re also a freeloader. But then, I always knew that.”

  Sameen lazily swatted Rohan’s chest with the back of her hand. “Shut up.”

  They lay curled up on the sofa, chatting. Finally, Rohan pushed her off, saying he was going to lay the table and serve dinner.

  Sameen put her head back and listened to Norah Jones crooning in the background. She closed her eyes to soak in the soothing tones.

  “Sameen, come. Dinner’s ready.” Rohan’s voice pulled her out of the spell. She got up and went to the dinner table. Her eyes widened.

  “What’s that?” Sameen asked, pointing at the big bowl of thick brown soup with noodles and vegetables, garnished with diced peanuts.

  “It’s khao suey,” Rohan replied as he served them. “It’s a Burmese dish. I think you’ll like it.”

  “This is delicious.” Sameen dug into the bowl for more. “This is exactly what I needed today—an old-fashioned romantic evening at home. How did you know?”

  “I have magical powers,” said Rohan. “Now eat up, there’s also dessert.” He winked.

  Chapter 4

  Sameen realized her new friend was a bit shy. Not that it bothered her. She could talk the hind leg off a donkey, so she could very well carry the conversation all by herself. And anyhow, she owed this woman for helping her out in her time of need.

  “So what sort of journalist are you?” she asked, setting down a tray with two mugs of cappuccino and two slices of cake.

  “I cover sport, mostly cricket and tennis.”

  “Wow,” Sameen said. “I didn’t know there were women covering sport.”

  “Of course there are.”

  “I know, I know,” Sameen said, flustered. “That didn’t come out right. I mean, I would imagine it’s a bit of a boys’ club. I heard about that ridiculous incident where that cricketer made a pass at a woman interviewer on live TV, and all these people defended him saying it’s just a bit of fun. What an idiot.”

  “It’s a boys’ club all right. But it’s not that bad if you know your stuff.” Tara paused to tuck a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “Mostly.”

  Sameen laughed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s the same in all professions that are male dominated, I suppose.”

  “What about your work?” Tara fiddled with the silver ring on her thumb. She seemed somewhat restless, and Sameen wondered if she was usually like this or if she was bored out of her mind at the moment.

  “Oh, publishing is full of women—not so much money, so mostly women.”

  Tara made a face. “It makes sense, though I wish it didn’t. What exactly do you do?”

  “I am a commissioning editor, which means I’m responsible for bringing in manuscripts for publication. We mostly do trade non-fiction.”

  “Oh, right, you guys did that book on corruption in cricket.”

  “That’s right. But my department does the politics list. That night we, er, met, I had been working late, sending Loveleen Bing’s new book off to press.”

  Tara’s eyebrows went northwards. She’d been tapping her index finger noiselessly on the side of her mug, but her hand stilled. “The Loveleen Bing?”

  Sameen groaned. “Yeah. She’s a bitch, though. A complete diva. I hope I never have to work with her again. It has been a nightmare getting this book done and making sure we don’t get sued for half the things she’s said. She just wouldn’t listen to anything we suggested.” Sameen shuddered. “Ugh, let’s not talk about her. She gave me nightmares, truly.”

  Tara smiled and drank her coffee. The tapping resumed. Okay, so it’s not me—she’s naturally restless, Sameen concluded with some relief.

  “So you live alone?” Sameen asked.

  “With my mother. You?”

  “With my boyfriend. We just moved into the house two, three months back. I like it here, better than my old place, which was such a weird house—one room after another, no passageway.”

  “Ah, those houses. There are quite a few of them here. But it is a nice locality.”

  “Actually”, Sameen broke off a piece of cake, “the reason I was in such a hurry that night was because it was Rohan’s birthday.”

  “Your boyfriend? Oh right, you mentioned the birthday. Did you reach the party on time?”

  “More or less, though most of our guests didn’t make it.”

  “It was quite terrible that night, all the waterlogging.”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence fell between them, though it didn’t feel that awkward. Tara was contemplating her coffee mug, her thick, long eyelashes almost touching her cheeks as she blinked. She no longer seemed restless, and the calmness surrounding her drew Sameen in.

  Tara looked up and their eyes met. Sameen quickly looked away, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring.

  “What does Rohan do?” Tara asked.

  “He’s a landscape architect—he works freelan
ce, so he’s at home most of the time. He’s a perfect homemaker, though, so it’s great for me. I can barely even fold a towel straight.”

  “Lucky you,” Tara said. “That night I came home to find that my mother had cooked rice and chapatis, but nothing to eat with them.”

  “Sounds like something I would do if I had to plan a meal. Have you lived in this area long?”

  “Almost all my life.” She was absently folding her napkin tinier and tinier now.

  “Wow. I moved to Delhi only three years back. My parents are in Bangalore. I grew up there. But if you want to make it big in the publishing industry, you have to be either in Delhi or Bombay. I met Rohan the day I arrived in Delhi. It was like it was meant to be.”

  Tara smiled politely and unfolded her napkin. “So you’ve been together three years?”

  “Not really. We were friends at first, and then we started dating. We only moved in together last year. But look at me, jabbering on. Tell me about you.”

  “There’s nothing very exciting to tell. I’ve been working with the online sports portal Sportscene for the past five years. Before that I was with the Hindustan Times.”

  “And your family?”

  “It’s just my mother and me now.”

  “Oh.” Sameen was not sure what else to say. She couldn’t imagine what losing a parent must feel like. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, it’s okay.” Tara pushed at cake crumbs with her fork.

  Sameen decided it was time to change the subject. “So…do you get to go to all the cricket matches and stuff?”

  Tara settled deeper in her chair, letting the fork fall back to the empty plate. “I do, now and again, though I don’t always do live coverage. If you want tickets for the Twenty20 cricket match next week, I could get you some.”

  “Ooh, Rohan would love that.”

  “Great. I have a couple of passes to spare.” Tara looked down at her hand and frowned at the napkin she was now shredding. She put it down and clasped her hands.