Page 14 of Made in Mumbai

October, 2034

Hello, hello, mic testing, mic testing 1-2-3… ahem ahem.

We are all here and thank you for coming to the 2034 Gundee Awards! I am your favourite host, MayaScott… alright, it sounded like Michael Scott in my head but never mind, you know me so it was redundant anyway.

So, welcome, welcome!

I would just like to say that we all love the boss, and any jokes made at his expense here are totally, totally intentional. I mean, come on, he’s a cool guy. Right?

*crickets croaking*

A-lllright then. I see a lot of new faces this year. Special welcome to these newbies. If you have joined Made in Mumbai — Weeee! You are already having the time of your life. If you joined GK Textiles… all the best.

The common question all you newbies have is — ‘Maya, how didyoustart working at this place?’

Well, well, I saved that story for today, because it is a story for the ages. So, before we start the grand Tin Anniversary Ceremony of the prestigious Gundee Awards, let me tell you about a certain non-rainy June day that turned rainy, and changed the course of my life…

I: MAYA’S WORLD

1. Jab We Met

PRESENT DAY

June, 2024

“Is leaky roof better than a leaky umbrella?” Maya wondered aloud, walking briskly up the slippery slope of Pali Hill. Who would believe this was a posh area of suburban Mumbai? The BMC clearly did not like Mumbai’s wealthy living peacefully, even after spilling their and their ancestors’ kidneys to buy property here. Potholes. Everywhere. And where the roads ran smooth? Silty mounds dug up to repair ‘an old project.’ Or to find the long-lost treasure that the Portuguese had left behind.

“Back to the issue,” she shook her head, holding her arm protectively over her white silk blouse as she trudged uphill. It was a two-front war, protecting her newest pair of black fit-and-flare jersey trousers from being splashed at by the mean rickshawalas while keeping the white top from sticking to her skin. “Who told you to wear white on a probable rainy day?” She ranted to herself, glowering at the mighty Mumbai rain. The sucker didn’t fall from up to down. No. It blew sideways and right into your face. And white blouse.No, God, no! It’s my first day.

Drip. Drip. Her umbrella leaked. She quivered, her steps still quick, lolling her tongue out to collect the droplet of water rolling down her Ruby Woo lipstick. “I’ll take a leaky roof!” She hollered to the sky. “Give me a leaky roof but don’t make my umbrella leak. Please! Please! Let me reach my new office dry and looking like Kiara Advani! Please, I beg you!”

Splash.

“Hawww!” She jumped back. “Abey saale…” before she could finish her string, the rickshaw had raced off, leaving perfectly layered brown splotches on her black trousers.

“Ok, what part of dry and Kiara Advani did you not understand?!” She screamed up at the sky. The clouds rumbled. “Shit!” She hiked her LV tote higher and resumed her sprint. Thank god she had chosen a pair of Birkenstocks to walk. Her heels were safely tucked away in a pouch in her tote. “See, I can be smart when I want to be,” she smirked, pushing the lose wisps of hair behind her ear and into the bun she had tied before leaving home. She would shake it open when she reached the office, just before entering, and her hair would flow down in perfect beach waves. That’s one thing the rain did well for her. It added super waves and volume to her hair.

“Wow!” She froze outside her new office. Would it even be called an office? It was a cafe, or an ex-cafe. Lore had it, that the owner had bought out a converted Portuguese villa that used to function as a quirky cafe and turned it into the office of GK Textiles. What a boring name for a company, but hey, the Santorini blue and white tiled nameplate just outside the wrought iron gate looked right out of some aesthetic Pinterest board. Bougainvillea vines crept over the arched gate, the pink flowers sparse and drenched. And behind it rose the three-storey old-school bungalow, with brown tiled roofs and white turret balconies running entire floors.

She had seen it all before, of course, when she had interviewed. But who could have enough of this? Maya bounced on the soles of her feet, pushing the gate open and breezing in. There was security but he was, like last time, kind enough to smile and let her pass through. Their check-point was the receptionist just inside. But before that…

She pulled her umbrella shut, stuffed it in the bucket of wet umbrellas and shook her bun out under the veranda roof. The rain stopped. Like in a second. A switch turned off. Maya stared up at the dark clouds, parting to show the sun. “Fuck you.”

“Excuse me?” A soft, feminine tingle sounded behind. She turned.

“Oh, hey, not you, sorry.”

“Then who?” The young woman glanced around. She was petite, pretty. Her eyes were dark brown, her hair the same shade, and she wore no makeup except a tinted lip balm. And in the clothes department, she had good style. Her black boyfriend jeans looked close to formal wide-legged pants. Tucked into it was a pink floral top.

“I… long story. So, when I left home it was sunny. I live just 10 minutes away, you know? And still I grabbed my umbrella because it’s June and you never know in Mumbai. And I was right. The moment I stepped out of my building, it started raining. What raining?! It started pouring. I almost drenched myself, had to jump over massive, like massive potholes and some rude rickshawala did this —” Maya extended her leg with the pretty flare of her black attacked with splotches of brown. “And just when I reached here, look —”

They both glanced up in unison. Birds were bloody flocking across the sun, chirping merry songs. The woman sputtered. And Maya’s heat from the buildup of her story burst. She snorted, then began to laugh too.

“Welcome, I am Riya,” the young woman held out her hand.

“Maya. Hi.”

“I know. I saw you when you came to interview.”

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