Page 63 of Made in Mumbai

“Take it easy today and tomorrow. You’ll know when you are ready. The cramps have already subsided, haven’t they?” The doctor asked her. Maya nodded.

“Are you driving her home?” This one was addressed to him. Gautam nodded.

“Ok then, see you at the end of the month for your appointment,” she smiled at Maya and sent them on their way.

The drive to her home was made in silence. After the short camaraderie over that cheesecake, they had cooled down in the silence of the Mumbai night. The roads weren’t completely deserted, never were in this city. But there was a peaceful air about them as signals stopped working and people stopped rushing to reach somewhere. The BMC workers took over to repair patches of roads, double lanes turned single lanes, and you almost felt like you were in one of those old Bombay films.

“Here?” He asked, following the last turn of Google Maps that she had set up for him.

“Yes, to the right,” she pointed. He parked the car by the gate and got out.

“Thanks,” she stepped out just as fast as him, her body language urgent. “Thanks for everything, Gautam, really.”

“No problem, come on.” He pointed to the closed gate of her building. It wasn’t a fancy building as he had expected of her. The four-storey structure looked 50, maybe 60 years old. The paint was peeling off and the watchman was snoring.

“I’ll go…” she tried but he rattled the gate to wake up the slacking watchman. He didn’t look fit enough to stop a dog from jumping in, forget a seasoned thief. He startled awake.

“Bhaiya?” Maya waved at his sleepy eyes, trying to cover him from the watchman’s eyes. As if. The watchman unlocked the gate, eyeing him suspiciously as he followed her into the wing and up the stairs.

“There’s no lift?” He asked.

“No. But I like the workout,” Maya smirked. Gautam wasn’t convinced because she was winded by the second floor. The steps were high and chipped. Another hazard.

“Which floor?”

“Third.”

They climbed another set of stairs and she stopped at a door, quickly unlocking it and stepping in. Then she turned, the house dark behind her.

“Safely delivered,” she bowed her head. “Thank you, kind sir.” She did her obnoxious queen accent, which didn’t sound as obnoxious now with her grin.

Gautam shook his head, stepped back and closed her door. The girl was home, and he was free to go.

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He trudged into his penthouse flat and switched on all the lights. He liked it bright when it was too dark. Gave him the illusion of day, like Kumar bhai used to create while they drove trucks together.

“Din-raat ek karne ka best tareekka,” he’d say when they were night-driving and he’d feel sleepy. They would stop at a dhaba or petrol pump, Kumar bhai would throw the cabin’s interiors in heavy light and make him drink a strong sugary tea. He’d also offer tobacco, but Gautam refused every single time. He had seen the degeneration of human senses under substance. He wouldn’t fall prey to it.

What Kumar bhai also did was put on the loudest songs on the tape deck. Day or night, his truck was never without music. And not the kinds that all other truck drivers preferred — the hot, fast numbers. No, Kumar bhai was all about ghazals. Even if they were slow and mellow. Fact of the matter was, he never felt sleepy listening to them. And over time, Gautam had conditioned to them too.

That is why he tossed his keys, wallet and Maya’s cake box on the kitchen counter and walked to the glossy cabinet by the long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. They opened to a wide deck that ran the length of his house. He didn’t open the window now but pulled open the cabinet that housed an ugly-looking black tape deck that he had stolen from Kumar bhai’s truck when they had surrendered it to their truck company. He hadn’t been able to steal the cassettes on time and Kumar bhai had laughed with the stash. Even so, Gautam had made a whole collection of mixtapes of his own.

He didn’t even check which one was on as he depressed the play button. The deck began to play from where he had left off, almost two-three weeks ago. He couldn’t even remember now. The last month had been a whirlwind. This Amber Raisingh project had kept him on his toes, even though he hadn’t shown it to his staff. He wasn’t one to display his desperation. Ever. If he wanted something, he acted like he didn’t care much about it. Otherwise, he knew enough about human nature to try and snatch it from him.

“Uss mod se shuru kare, phir yeh zindagi…” Chitra sang.

Gautam popped the buttons of his shirt, shrugged out of it and lowered himself on his favourite reclining armchair by the windows. The ghazal played in the background as he rewound this evening. Or last evening, he squinted at the dark night turning slightly pale. It hit him. He had thrown Amber’s three-year contract in her face. Of course, he did not regret it after witnessing firsthand how horrible her work ethic was.But…there was always a but.

It would mean he’d have to restart in the world of luxury designers. He had an edge now, in that his name was already out in the industry as a master supplier and textile design studio. He hadn’t checked in with Sahyadri yet, but he had pulled up the company WhatsApp chat and seen people celebrating with photos of the fashion show. News articles had also started trickling in with mentions of their brand. Made in Mumbai was making its splash. With time, he might find another designer to work with. Once that was on track to get more designers, he wanted to expand into a whole new industry. He had a massive surplus coming in from this business which was going into passive investments. His money was working overtime for him.

But as a businessman, his fingers were now itching to take on the spices industry. It was a market of volumes, and he knew the routes for local sourcing. In his recent travels abroad, he had also scouted markets. Italy was one, Turkey was another. And Belgium was third. The latter was a completely Indian market, while the former two were European markets slowly turning towards Indian spices. All three untapped. Now, all he needed was the right moment to diversify and move his eggs out of one basket. That’s how one made an empire.

His gaze fell on the small styrofoam box lying on his long kitchen counter. And all thoughts of business evaporated. Maya came flooding back into his mind. And he wondered if she had realised by now that she had forgotten her chocolate cake in his car.

“No.” He said to himself. “Forget it. Tonight you were friends, Monday onwards you are back to being her boss.”

He had to draw these lines and hold them tight. She had this innate ability to draw him closer and hold him there. Like some magic. And it wasn’t good for his health — the amount of amusement she was awakening in him. Life wasn’t about all this fun and frolic. For him, it was about climbing and moving up the ladder, making his mark on this city, becoming the man who came, conquered singlehandedly and left his flag flying high.

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