A Bit of Sky

by Kumar Pradhan

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

I headed for my car. Madanlal was waiting at the usual place with the Delhi Office Zen. As Madanlal took the car out of the airport complex and stepped on the accelerator on the main road, I fell into a trance, thinking about Nilu.

Madanlal asked me, “How was the flight, sir?”

Instantly I replied “Splendid” and bit my tongue. Though the truth had expressed itself, I felt I should not have been so spontaneous.

Thereafter I was hardly aware of my surroundings and was lost in my own thoughts. Why was Nilu so eager to talk to me? I remembered that the other passengers’ eyes were fixed on us. There were nearly 250 passengers on board. Why me? Did she want to flaunt her acquaintance with me to Florence? Or was she about to push some artist, some AE, some steno into my Agency? But I hadn’t noticed any such intention.

I suddenly remembered her pert, composed self, her way of talking in a low tone so that other passengers were not disturbed. Her saree, her vanity case, her hairdo and suddenly I muttered her name out... Nilu.

“Yes, sir?” Madanlal was asking me. I came out of my trance and in response just asked him, “How long yet is Nirula’s?”

He said, ”We are at Connaught Circus and just three buildings ahead is Nirula’s.” And the next moment we arrived at Nirula’s. I gave suitable instructions to Madanlal as to when he should come next morning and the car went back.

I picked up my keys from the reception counter where I learned that Mr. Oberoi had phoned to say that he was on his way and would be there in half an hour.

I went to my room on the fifth floor. It was never a suite, because I had instructed to book a moderate but cozy room. The point was that my other executives should avoid extravagance. My agency was a middle-sized, modest organization, and I wanted to be cautious in my ambition of expansion. In the half-hour that was left for me, I changed into a comfortable casual dress and looked at the papers for the next day’s meeting.

I had scarcely seen the papers when the intercom rang. I lifted the hand set and found the reception informing me that Mr. Oberoi was in the lobby. I said I would be down in five minutes.

I joined Mr. Oberoi downstairs. He turned out to be a middle-aged gentleman, more official than casual, probably because I was his prospective client. He asked me how my flight was. I said, “Wonderful.” Of course I did not mention Nilu.

He preferred to go out for the meeting and dinner. But I told him I had to rest and offered to meet him in the lounge of Nirula’s and have a moderate dinner at Nirula’s in-house restaurant. The idea was that in Nirula’s I could sign the bill, whereas anywhere else Mr. Oberoi would not allow me to pay. I was the last man to dine at his expense.

He said, “As you please, sir.”

For the next hour, Mr. Oberoi explained the profile of his magazine, its demographic analysis, its readership quality and so on. He had brought quite adequate printed material with him for a graphic presentation. He assured me that his Mumbai office would follow up with me.

While I was pondering about which client I might suggest his magazine to, I suddenly remembered that Mr. Bose was expecting my call. After all, he was my client at Mumbai. And I thought that it was my duty to inform him that my visitor had come and I wouldn’t be meeting him. If Mr. Oberoi had not arrived, I might really have joined Mr. Bose.

Promising Mr. Oberoi to rejoin him in five minutes, I excused myself and went to the reception desk. I gave the number of Ashoka, which I had carefully kept in my changed shirt pocket, and waited. In two minutes the receptionist handed me the receiver and said, “Your number, sir.”

I got Mr. Bose on the line. Apologetically I said, “Sir, I am sorry I could not come; I am with my visitor.” Mr. Bose said with a surprise “Oh I see! She has turned up, has she?”

I had never told Mr. Bose who was coming. Even then he was asking me if “she” had turned up. For a minute I was puzzled. Suddenly I remembered the Nilu episode and a bulb lit. The next moment I realized what Mr. Bose was thinking. I fretted and fumed. I felt like a jaundiced patient feeling the whole world yellow. It took some time to compose myself.

A little while later I just said “Mr. Bose, my visitor is not a female. He is a male with a beard and a turban.” And I hung up. I felt very badly hurt. I mechanically returned to the seat where Mr. Oberoi was sitting. My frustration, my desperation might have shown on my face, because Mr. Oberoi sympathetically enquired, “Mr. Kshirsagar, is anything wrong? Are you all right?” I came to my senses and responded, “No, no Mr. Oberoi, nothing serious.” And I tried in vain to change my expression.

When we had finished our dinner, it was nearly 11 o’clock. I bade Mr. Oberoi goodbye and returned to my room upstairs. The next morning I had to be at my Delhi branch at 9.30 a.m., and Madanlal was to pick me up from Nirula’s. I decided to retire. Nilu was not going out of my mind, and whenever I was unoccupied, she stuck her head up... I mean, my memory of her. At bedtime, too, she was not ready to leave me alone. Though up my sleeves I was enjoying her popping up in my thoughts, I pushed her aside with arduous efforts.

The next morning I arose on time. In fact I had left instructions for a wake-up call. When the intercom rang, I was about to start brushing my teeth. I lifted the intercom. A melodious female voice greeted me good morning and said it was already 5:30 a.m.

I said, “Thank you. I’m already up.” And I replaced the handset on the cradle. I skipped the bed tea. After some time I instructed room service to bring breakfast.

The gentleman from room service asked me, “What breakfast dishes, sir?

This question always bores me. I had not decided. I said, “Um... um... send me an omelet and toast and jam, and... tea.” I did not particularly want an omelet. But that was the first dish that came to my mind. Top of the mind recall, I thought. That was a research term. D’Souza, our research man, had used it every so often for describing the response to any advertising.

Duly at 9.00 o’clock Madanlal came and in fifteen minutes I was in the back seat. I responded to his “good morning” with “very good morning,” and we drove to the office. Today the majority of the staff was in the office — for a change, I thought.

Alban Rodrigues, my Delhi manager, was expecting me. After initial “good mornings,” “how are yous” and “how was the flight,” etc., he ushered me to my special seat. While responding to how my flight was, I could not hide my smile, remembering Nilu; but Alban felt I was pleased with his manners. I took out my papers and started discussing routine problems.

After lunch I wished to go to my hotel and take a good nap. Just then Sohum came in. I was surprised, because I had seen everybody in the office; but Sohum had not been there in the morning. After initial greetings he told me he was on Pragati Maidan.

I remembered Alban had told me about our client’s stall in the Industrial Exhibition at Pragati Maidan. He had very proudly informed me that the stall was designed by Sohum and his associates. Sohum was the Art Director of the Delhi Art Department.

Instead of asking “Where were you this morning?” I inquired about the exhibition stall and the response there.

Sohum said, “The stall has come out superbly, sir. Why don’t you visit the exhibition, sir?”

I always made it a point to appreciate my employees’ creativity. By visiting the exhibition, my client would also feel better. With these thoughts, I agreed to Sohum’s request that I visit the exhibition.

At 4 o’clock we set out to visit the exhibition in Pragati Maidan. Sohum was already there. Alban was with me. We arrived at the exhibition tent. It was a huge tent. I sensed a lot of hustle and bustle. The exhibition seemed to attract many visitors. The time for industrial visitors had already started. Alban had said that the morning hours were kept for general visitors.

We entered the mammoth main hall. I saw a galaxy of stalls in a row. Each stall was manned by a bevy of marketing and sales staff and a bunch of beautiful young ladies who were neither sales nor marketing personnel. They were trained to attend to visitors and tactfully hand the visitor over to the marketing personnel. They were all engaged in explaining their product details to the visiting businessmen.

I decided to have a round later. My own client’s stall was my concern. Alban led me to the stall designed and erected by Sohum for our client.

The stall was really communicative, impressive and compelling. I saw some display gimmicks used by Sohum and appreciated them. The stall was attracting a great number of visitors. I kept on reading the various boards, watching hangers-on perusing different display units in the bustling crowd.

My right side was to the gangway, full of visitors passing, lingering, sticking their necks into our stall. While watching a display panel, I casually turned my head to the right and... I froze. Mr. Bose was passing by with a lady. I walked briskly, nay, nearly jumped, to the gangway and peered to the left direction. Mr. Bose was strolling with a young, fashionably decked-out lady. His right hand was around her waist. They were moving as if oblivious to the world around them.

I knew who the young lady was. She was none other than Nilu, the air hostess I had met the previous day.

My blood surged. I felt like lifting a boulder in Herculean style, running after Mr. Bose and dumping it on his head. But a boulder was not to be found there. It would have been too heavy for me, too. I was ready to settle for a stone.

I looked down and suddenly I realised that the whole place was carpeted. Carpet, carpet everywhere and not even a piece of grit was visible anywhere. That was the first time I abused and railed against the organizers for not providing basic necessities.

to Challenge 370...