Page 22 of Made in Mumbai

“Not that kind of care, either,” he warned. She waved, turning her back and running out of the glasshouse. Her feet faltered as a tiny green almond fruit fell off the tree. Maya picked it up and dashed to the tree’s curving branch. It was heavy with green leaves. This wasn’t the season of fruits.

She brought the almond to her mouth and bit in. It wasn’t sweet but it wasn’t tart either.

“The exit is that way,” his voice startled her. She glanced over her shoulder, a sheepish smile stretching her lips. He stood on the threshold of his office, his sleeves rolled up, pants fitting his hips like they were tailored on him this morning before he left for work.

“I was just about to go…” Maya turned, strolling down his terrace. “Want?” She offered the almond as she passed him. The mask of professionalism on his face wasthisclose to breaking. But he didn’t burst. She kept glancing back to check if he would show anything. Anger, amusement, frustration. Nothing.

When she reached the main floor and began to call everybody to lunch, they broke her heart.

“I’m done.” “We ate…” “Just finished.” “Where were you?”

“Dhokebaazo…” she pointed to them, then took her tiffin and began to wonder where she would eat for the most entertainment. Instagram-scrolling wouldn’t cut it today.

She was walking around clueless, debating if the outdoors patio furniture was good enough to eat when she found the peons and the maids just opening their food on the verandah.

“Main aa sakti hoon?” She called out from the window. They gaped at her, their newspapers and tiffins abandoned. Maya didn’t wait. She ran out the main door and pulled a chair right beside them.

And they shared a whole lot of food. Thecha, pav, bhindi made so damn delicious with shredded coconut by one of their wives, and of course, her sad red pasta from last night which they seemed to ‘like.’ She got to know about their stories, where they lived, where their children went to school and even about the homes they were building or renovating in their villages. Apparently, building homes in villages was a thing.

“Hey, Maya,” Leo tapped her head. “It’s Rustom’s birthday today.”

“Whaaa?” She gabbled, chewing on her last thecha-pav bite. “Nobody told me…”

“Nobody knew. I just got a Facebook reminder.”

“So, what’s the birthday scene here?”

“Birthday scene as in?”

“As in, cake, pizza, some fun?”

Leo looked like he had swallowed a stone.

“A gift voucher.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged.

“No can do. We are contributing and ordering Rustom’s favourite cake.”

“He likes cheesecake,” Leo squinted. “I think.”

“Say no more! I have an idea.”

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“Surprise!!!!!!” She and the twenty other people behind her screamed in his ears. Rustom jumped. “What?!” He turned, then stopped, his big eyes going from her face to the others behind her to the massive salted caramel cheese cake in her hands. A golden candle burned bright on the top.

Maya grinned, miming him to blow. And for the first time since she had come to Made in Mumbai, Rustom smiled. A tiny, shy, begrudging smile. He pulled back, then blew the candle to loud hoots. Maya hooted too, swiping her fingers through some fluffy cream and smearing it on his nose.

Rustom froze.

Silence.

Everybody froze.

“It’s a cheesecake and it’s salted caramel,” Maya informed him. “The best kind of cake with the best kind of flavour, Rusti Bhai!”

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