Page 20 of Made in Mumbai

“What? Sia stopped.

“I mean… how’s his mood?”

“As usual,” she shrugged.

Maya made a face. Was this usual the usual she had seen when she had seen him for the first time last week. Or was this usual happy-happy and not the usual she had seen that day? She shook her head, climbing the last set of three stairs to his terrace. The door was open now. Still, she knocked.Workplace appropriate.

“Come in.”

Maya stepped inside the glasshouse. It was…wow. His desk was long, long enough to roll out fabric samples. But it looked sturdy enough to play pool on too. The dark wood looked smoky and perfect, the book shelves behind him matching its aesthetic. A long brown leather couch sat on one side of the glasshouse, while artfully arranged cabinets made the space a mix of cosy and functional.

“I said come in,” he clipped again. And Maya startled, meeting his eyes. He sat behind his desk, in another one of those perfect shirts that stretched across his chest. It was blue this time. Did he intentionally twin with her? Was he stalking her? Ooooh, what if he had constructed this whole thing? Stalked her, found out she wanted a job and given it to her?

“Are you hard of hearing and did not disclose it at the time of hiring?”

“Huh? No. No.”

She power-walked into his office, flipping her hair behind her shoulder, low-key showing him that her outfit was workplace appropriate today. He did not seem to care though as his compressed lips remained compressed and eyes remained on her eyes.

“Sit.”

She did. A moment of silence passed. And she wondered if he had called her here to talk about their shared history. Fine, it was one day fifteen years ago. But it was still history. That day was fun. Beautiful in fact. If he had called her to ask her to keep that to herself…

“I’ll keep it to myself.”

“What?”

“Our history. I haven’t disclosed it to anybody yet. And I don’t intend to, if you are wondering about it. It’s unprofessional and I may look like I am all about breaking rules but I respect professionalism.”

“Good to know. But I did not call you for that.”

“No? Oh.”

“You have been bothering GK Textiles employees and I need you to know that when they say no, it means no. We source our fabrics from our own mills or those we have partnered with. I appreciate your contacts, but without passing our quality checks, they cannot be enrolled in our suppliers list.”

“Oh… kay. Patel & Sons is top notch. I can vouch for them. They do their muslins the old-school way, trust me. You wouldn’t have seen or felt anything like it…”

“And you need to make your designs fabric-compatible,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken.

“I do!” Maya sat forward.

“I’m sure you do. But make it a practise here. Sahyadri has a whole lot on her plate. We cannot expect her to bring finishing touches on your work…”

Maya opened her phone and pulled up the email of her designs, showing it to him — “It is fabric compatible.”

That got him to stop talking. For half a second he looked like he would apologise but then he only gave a curt nod.

“Your experience not withstanding, we have hired you…”

“I have eleven years of experience!” Maya burst out. “But you wouldn’t know that because you wouldn’t have read my file or resume or had the patience to ask me.”

He was busy hitting keys on his Mac. She seethed, about to tear into him again.

“Maya Sanghvi née Kotak,” he read out, probably from her file. “You are married?”

“I was. I am back to using my old surname Kotak but some documents still have Sanghvi.”

He continued reading — “34 years old…”

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