The Call
(Continued from Chapter 1)
The next four days were routine. Office work, meetings, the usual back-and-forth with his boss and a session with the MD. Everything professional, everything normal. Neither of them gave any hint that something was going on behind the scenes. If there was an understanding between them, it wasn’t showing.
Then Saturday morning. Around 10 am his
phone rang. “Nita Personal” flashed on the screen. He picked up, bracing for
her usual sharp, no-nonsense tone. But what he heard stopped him cold.
“Hi Amitji, Nitu here, how are you?”
Soft. Almost musical. The kind of voice
that makes you forget you were supposed to say hello back. Before he could
respond, she went on—talking fast, like she’d planned every word, barely
leaving him space to get a word in.
“The lawyer has drafted all the papers.
Everything’s ready. Tomorrow we’ll go to the club around 11 am for signing, and
then we’ll have lunch there.”
He tried to jump in. No chance.
“But before that,” she continued, and he
swore he could hear a smile, “I want to take you for some shopping. So let’s
meet today. 5 pm. At Phoenix Mall, main entrance. Don’t be late.” The bossy,
commanding Nita he knew was gone. This voice was different—girlish, light, with
laughter tucked between the words. It threw him.
“Amitji? You there?”
“Yes… 5 pm. Phoenix.”
“Good.” Another soft laugh. “Bye and… thank
you.” The call ended.
Amit looked at his phone. It was 10:10 am.
Seven hours to go.
Amit sat still for a long time after the
call, the phone still warm in his hand. He was trying to comprehend the
profound change in Nita’s attitude toward him. The sharp edges were gone. The
commands replaced by requests. The ice replaced by… music.
Then suddenly it hit him.
The roles had changed.
Nita was no longer the boss demanding
something. He was the new lord, the one she had to please and keep happy for
six months. The balance had tipped. She would make efforts from now on because
her stakes were very high— much higher than his, maybe.
The thought sent a slow, unfamiliar heat
through his chest. Confidence. Energy. The kind he hadn’t felt in years.
He was going back to his own self, to the
time when his father was still there. Real Amit. Cheerful, head held high,
confident about the future. He knew he had to play his cards well. If he did,
six months later, he would begin a new life. A life without the constant weight
of worry pressing on his shoulders.
Amit exhaled, long and deep, as if he’d
been holding that breath for months. He just spread himself on the bed, arms
wide, staring at the ceiling fan.
And for the first time in a long while,
sleep took him quickly. No turning, no overthinking. Just quiet.
The wall clock showed four in the afternoon
as Amit came around from his deep slumber. That clock had always hung in their
house in Wai, ever since he was a kid. The same steady tick-tock that had
marked exam results, monsoon evenings, and his father’s laughter. When he
shifted to Mumbai, his mother had insisted that he take it with him.
“This would bring you good luck,” she had
said, wrapping it carefully in an old shawl.
It appeared to Amit that the clock’s magic
was to begin now.
He stretched and suddenly realised he was
feeling much better. Lighter. The heaviness that had been sitting on his chest
for months seemed to have loosened its grip while he slept.
He stood in front of his cupboard and
thought about the clothes he should wear. His choices were limited — a couple
of formal shirts, two old kurtas, the usual office wear. For a second he
considered buying something new. Then he rejected the thought and decided to
stick to his jeans and polo. They fit him well, and as his mother would say,
they looked better on him.
He slipped on his Bata slippers. He left
home, took a bus, and walked the last kilometer or so. He reached the main
entrance to the mall with a few minutes still to spare.
As he waited near the main entrance to the
mall, Amit knew that his MD—or Nitu, whatever role she took up now—would arrive
on the dot. True to her reputation, a sparkling white VW Polo glided into the
driveway and stopped near him. Nitu herself was waving for him to get in.
Amit opened the door and slipped into the
passenger seat. He looked to his right and his breath caught.
Nitu, in the driver’s seat, looked
absolutely terrific. Her hair, usually tied in a tight bun, now fell straight
and loose past her shoulders. A double-layered chiffon skirt shifted with every
movement, tracing the curve of her legs and thighs as she drove. She wore a
low-cut blouse, her upper half partially veiled by a strand of red beads. Long
earrings brushed near her shoulders, and an iWatch glowed on her wrist.
Nita eased the car down the curved ramp
into the basement. At every turn, the basement lights caught the beads, the
earrings, the line of her neck. Amit’s fingers tightened on the seatbelt
without him realizing it.
That short ride until she parked was a
moment of truth. Why is she dressed like this today? What is she planning? The
answer came to him, cold and clear.
He had already realized he was the lord
now, with Nita depending on him for the next six months. And this sharp woman
had realized her own weakness just as quickly. She was shifting
strategy—mesmerize him, throw him off, subdue him before he could settle into
power.
By the time the lift doors opened into the
mall proper, Amit knew exactly what he had to do.
The moment they stepped into the main
concourse, Nita’s eyes lit up. “Amitji, I’m dying for coffee. Let’s get it
right now.”
He took a breath. “Yes, we will. But first,
I want to tell you something very important.”
Nitu’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. “Coffee
first, no?” She saw his expression and sighed, amused. “Alright, important
first.”
They walked to a set of chairs tucked to
the side. Amit guided her to one and sat close, turning toward her. His voice
dropped, serious. “Nitu, you are looking absolutely terrific today. I don’t
think I have ever seen a more beautiful girl than you before.”
For a second, Nitu had no words. Then a
genuine smile broke through, followed by a soft laugh. She glanced at her
iWatch, almost like she was timing something, then looked back at him.
She knew. He had floored her. And he had
just shown who was going to be the boss from here on.
“Come on, Nitu. Get us coffee,” Amit said,
rising and offering his hand. She took it, stood, and walked beside him to the
coffee shop—not meek, but measuring him with every step.
The coffee bar in the mall had only two or
three high stools, with just one vacant. Amit helped Nitu onto the stool and
let her order whatever she wanted. They made small talk, and Amit didn’t
contradict her once. Slowly, Nitu was back in her element—smiling, gesturing,
that musical laugh returning.
Then they went around the mall. Clothes,
belts, slippers for Amit. He accepted whatever designs or styles she suggested,
nodding meekly, offering no argument. If she said the blue polo suited him, he
took it. If she picked leather sandals, he held them.
After the shopping was over, Amit
suggested, “Why not have some ice cream?”
Nitu’s face lit up. “I’d love that.”
They bought two—vanilla for Nitu, chocolate
for Amit. Cart in tow, they found a slightly dimmed corner of the mall and sat
down on the same sofa, close.
They talked about many things. Nitu spoke
about her childhood, school days, the strict hostel warden. Amit told her about
Wai—how he swam in the Krishna river, the mango trees he climbed, the games in
narrow lanes. Time slipped.
As they thought of leaving, they realized
how close they were sitting. Shoulders almost touching. They just looked at
each other and laughed.
They both knew it without saying: if they
had to act like husband and wife even outside the bedroom, they would have to
build a bond. And that could only come with time spent together.
As they drove out of the mall, Amit said,
“Let the shopping bags stay in your car for now. I’ll only take one dress—the
one you want me to wear tomorrow. If I take all the parcels home, the neighbors
are going to ask questions I can’t answer.”
Nitu agreed. She was quiet for a while,
watching the road. She realized she had started liking this man—his humbleness,
and yet the way he had defeated her in their first match without raising his
voice.
As the car neared the spot where he would
get down, she reached over and briefly held his hand. No words, just a squeeze.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “See you
tomorrow morning at 11.”
(To be continued)
----------