The Benefit Season (3 page)

‘
Does he
also…?’

‘
He sure does- he’s our
Veep. He works from the corporate offices at Cuffe Parade, but
comes around often for debriefings, to smite us with his sharp
words and to cut down our groves. Of late, he has shown no mercy to
his wife either, berating her in full view’.

‘
It’s just work, and it’s
not so bad’, Lele, the keeper of the faith, protests weakly,
wanting no more to be witness to the office bitching.

‘
Work- my foot! That’s no
way to talk to a lady- your wife- in front of the subordinates’.
Lily says.

‘
Alright I get the point’,
I say, rising, to avoid the discussion taking an unpleasant turn.
‘Guys, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a long day. Can we see what
you’ve been at in that kitchen of yours, Lily?’

‘
I hope you don’t mind
Gujarati veggies?’

‘
When dished up by the
teammate- not at all! I love all things Guajarati and all things
vegetarian.’

‘
Learn something’, Lily
laughs and tweaks Lele’s ear as we sit us on the dining table to
pay obeisance to sweetish Gujarati fare on offer:
Biranj (sweet rice), Bataka nu Shaak (sweet potato
curry) and Khaman (of sweet gram flour).

I taste the stuff and realize Lily really
does enjoy cooking- cooking for Lele that is! I; innocent of the
skill at arms of the kitchen, who am going to slip on the nosebag
at the same table by default, stand to gain a lot from that.

“
Mother you needn’t have
worried”, is the first thought that comes to mind, as I lie back in
bed and send her the usual mail before I curl up for
day.

ϖ

Chapter
3

Man at Work

Rain lashes against the
building and somewhere an open window bangs incessantly, which
wakes me up the next morning. The streets are like murky little
streams running between buildings, and traffic crawls through them
slowly till it halts at non-functional traffic lights. Waves pound
the crescent seashore and tired palms bend till their crests touch
the ground. Darkness shrouds the ocean and the city and it seems
like late evening even though it is just an early morning. As long
as it rains the humidity disappears, but as I learn later, it comes
back doubly reinforced after.

It is Lele’s turn to conjure up the morning
refreshments, and he is accordingly occupied in tossing in the
sizzling pan the sunny-side-ups, which Lily and I begin to tuck in
without any remorse. Lily works the toaster, and I take my position
at the table- liberally lathering the hot golden toasts with
yellowy salty butter faster than what that remarkable kitchen
apparatus can pop out. Luckily all of us are blessed with
remarkable appetites and equally efficient metabolisms to waste the
nutrients that get bunged in without any respect for the edicts of
the neighborhood dietician.

‘
Are eggs ok for
Gujaratis,’ I ask Lily, making idle conversation during a brief
lull in battle, in the calm before the storm, while additional
reinforcements of the bread are summoned from the second line in
the fridge.

‘
Who do you think we are-
we even make babies’!

‘
Sorry, I am a little
confused about the concept of vegetarianism; never having
experienced any, first hand’, I reply.

‘
Don’t worry, I’ll show
you around… the concept’, she says. She lights up like a galaxy as
Lele comes out, having finished his chore of feeding us. She gets
up and fixes coffee for all of us, after which we proceed to the
office to square off with the vampire couple.

ϖ

Office is the usual glass and steel affair:
impassive and cold to the multitude that passes in or passes out.
We work on the fifth floor, and out of habit we ignore the lift and
bound up the stairs, taking two at a time. After Lily has adjusted
her blouse, tied her hair in a bun and checked herself in the
vanity mirror, we are ready to head out to Mrs. Monal’s office for
my primer. Lily knocks gingerly and we all enter.

Lily gestures towards me and opens her mouth
to mention me but is cut short by the tall lady in the dark blue
suit, standing with her back toward us, looking out the window at
the rain-lashed city.

‘
I know’, she says
without turning, ‘leave us, Lily’. And that was that.

Lily raises her middle finger and turns to
exit.

‘
You’re welcome,’ the lady
says, staring coolly at Lily’s reflection in the dark
windowpane.

Lily’s face drains of all color and she
opens her mouth yet again to say something but the lady curtly
says, ‘that’ll be all’. Lily turns and slinks out.

When the lady finally turns to face me, I am
swept off my feet.

For all the things they’d said about her,
they’d never mentioned that she was such a traffic-stopper.
Exquisitely crafted, she is god’s gift to man. Hers is the chill
blight that hurls manly souls untimely to the shades. In heels she
is a shade taller than me; she comprises a fiery temper, long and
shapely legs, an olive complexion, auburn hair, and lastly two firm
breasts that my eyeballs get strangely glued to, and won’t come
unstuck, however hard I try.

‘
You may sit when you’re
done staring’, she says, tapping with a long slim finger my
CV
that is laid exposed
on her desk.

I sit down sheepishly, and open and shut my
mouth, thinking I could only make it worse.

‘
Tell me about yourself-
that which is not written here’, she says, caressing my photo with
a dainty hand.

I would really have liked
to tell her all that- only if my eyes would stop following those
pouty lips as they parted to show pearly teeth and a pink cavity
that I had the sudden unchaste urge to explore! My best efforts to
conjure Aarti’s image to my defense seemed to pale beside the
attraction the vision held before me. All I could murmur was a
silly; ‘ what does it
not
say there ma’am?’

She laughs lightly, raising a pointy chin to
reveal a long flute-glass neck. ‘I believe you wrote it’?

‘
Of course- but that was
some while ago. Given a choice- I would rather be your client than
your employee!’

That didn’t sound so good did it? But my
tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth and my wits had gone a
‘grazing. And I was in the woods, searching for words that wouldn’t
tumble out like tardy pebbles. If she was the one to go for the
“first impressions” - mine had just been tossed out the window.

‘
Oh really, how do you
mean’; she parks her chin on her wrist and leans across at me till
I can smell the peaches on her breath.

‘
I mean’, I manage to
mutter, ‘sports has always been my first love! And had not our
family circumstances dictated otherwise, I would no doubt have been
worthy of your interest in me… as a sportsman… professional
interest I mean’.

‘
Oh- you are worthy, Mr.
Pasricha, of our interest; of that I assure you’, she smiles. ‘You
still keep in touch- with your skills- I suppose’, she asks,
scanning the breadth of my shoulders.

‘
Nothing like the good old
days, but yes, I like to stay in shape; for that rainy
day’.

‘
It is that rainy day
today, Mr. Pasricha; let’s see if you’re in the shape that we
like’.

‘
I will do my best,
ma’am’.

‘
Call me Monal, Mr.
Pasricha’, she says.

‘
Yes ma’am-
Monal’.

‘
All right, let’s follow
through to the conference hall and see what the others have for us.
You can listen in and give us any ideas you may have. Learn those
ropes, Mr. Pasricha, for you’re soon going to be swinging from that
trapeze like a monkey! I’m told you’ve been briefed on what we do;
and soon I’ll be assigning you your client list. Okay?’

‘
Sure Monal’.

‘
Well, what are you
waiting for? See you then- ta da’, she swivels back to the windows
and shoos me out.

ϖ

I nod and walk out; feeling like an errant
schoolboy just assigned the stairs to be washed by the principal. I
slap the back of my head- cursing myself for having behaved like an
awestruck little boy, and totally having lost it out there. It
hadn’t been a day away from Aarti and there I was, already caught
ogling at my married boss’s bosom: I need better discipline than
that.

I find my way to the conference room where
ten or twelve people were already sitting, poring over their notes.
Lily does the intros and I take a chair at the end of the table.
The tension in the air is palpable and I could see the couple has
made quite an impact on my future colleagues. After the initial
formalities are done with no one has the time to look up and ask
after me. I had never stopped wondering why I’d been hired, even
during the placements at the college. My CV never matched their JD
even then, but Monal had ticked my shortlisted profile over
several, better-qualified students. Perhaps my sports background
helped me score over the others. Even now, the company seems
sufficiently manned for the task at hand, without my amateurish
intervention.

Soon Monal walks in and the people briefly
rise from their chairs. One of the seniors, Ninkush Agarwal, walks
to the podium for his presentation.

‘
I know you have something
very important to say, but have I asked you to start? Can we wait
for the VP?’ Monal says, before he can begin.’ Mr. Tom Beranger,
Asia Head is in town. He’ll be coming here to get a feel of what we
do and meet every one of us. So guys, stick your best foot forward
today.’

Ninkush goes back to his seat, his head
bowed, and the rest of us tap nervously on the table with the
eraser end of our pencils; and those that aren’t equipped with the
said tool, twiddle thumbs in anticipation of the grand
spectacle.

The grand spectacle arrives a few minutes
later, in a grey striped business suit, followed by a strikingly
handsome man who I guess correctly to be Monal’s other half in
marriage. Both seem people of fine taste.

Tom jovially shakes hands all around, while
Vishal, on noticing a new face, comes over and warmly takes my
hand. He is very suave, and asks after me with impeccable manners.
As everyone settles down, Monal explains that the team is going to
introduce its business and clients to Tom.

Ninkush takes the stand again and showcases
his clients, mostly cricketers. After he’d flashed a couple of
pictures, Tom stops him.

‘
Err…this begs the
question’, he says, after Ninkush had shown a couple of ageing,
balding, greying, bespectacled and pot bellied persons in the
manner of the gods of the sport; ‘are these people even
athletes?’

‘
They are the gods, sir!’
Ninkush protests, wounded by the blasphemy.

‘
It’s hard to believe’,
Tom continues, irreverently, turning to Vishal.

‘
They make us a ton of
money, Tom. Cricket is what works in this country. True, its not a
contact sport; there isn’t much of speed or action compared to-
let’s say football- but there’s plenty of technique involved, and
strategy: the batting order- deciding to bat or bowl- placing the
fielders- choosing a spinner over a pacer- reading the pitch- the
list goes on. Yes, and you do run once in a while, and you dive
too, though most of the skill is in reading each other’s mind- the
bowler the batsman’s and vice versa- the captain the other
captain’s- the wicket keeper the bowler’s- and so on.’

‘
So it’s a sport of mind
reading’, Tom says, irrationally now.

‘
There’s a lot of skill in
hand-eye coordination, footwork, wristwork, turning the ball,
pitching the right line and length etc.’, Ninkush, a sworn addict,
adds spiritedly.

‘
Like ballet with a bat’,
Tom asks.

‘
Exactly sir!’

‘
I was only joking’, Tom
says.

‘
Numbers don’t joke sir.
Or lie. This one man, called the Malabar Mallet, has earned 3
million top US dollar in match fees and 20 million US dollar in
endorsements, last financial year alone. That’s equal to what
Christiane Ronaldo, highest earning footballer, earned through
endorsements in the same period. You can work the math- we take 30%
of endorsement fees as commission’.

‘
Haven’t I seen his
picture somewhere; crying like a baby- after someone slapped him I
believe’?

‘
He’s emotional…
sensitive… an artist! He’s put it all behind him. And the guy who
slapped him is nowhere now. Last seen, he was advertising soda
while our boy was swinging a leg for the single malts.’

‘
The argument rests then.
If you Indians dig cricket, who am I to argue? 30% is fine by me-
let the numbers rule’, Tom says finally.

The others came on and present the stars in
their portfolios; the earnings dipping considerably as players of
badminton, tennis, boxing, wrestling, and lastly shooting enter the
B-lists. They even had a chess grandmaster; after all there were
hungry mouths to be fed.

‘
Cricket is fine,’ Tom
says. ‘ But it’s a crowded market out there. You guys are doing
fine work here, by Indian standards, but not as good as many of our
other branches in Asia, and certainly nowhere close to our European
team. You can’t strut around with a handful of cricketers and
afford to get complacent; I don’t even know what their shelf life
is- most of them already look way past their prime- in fact they
look more like flabby desk clerks than prim athletes. My parting
advice would be to move beyond cricket; move beyond sports if
necessary; crawl out of that niche you’ve carved out for yourself.
And if you need anything, I’m just a thought - not even a phone
call- away’.