Page 56 of Made in Mumbai

“You are right. I will go.”

“How did it happen?” Gautam left her hand, handing something to the concierge behind her.

“I went to the loo and was inattentive.”

“Liar,” he smirked. In this high-voltage situation, he had the audacity to smirk. And to shake his head like this was amusing!

“How do you know?”

He stepped out of the wide hotel doors and into the pleasant balmy night. She followed him — “Where are you going?”

“With you.”

“What? No! You have to walk the ramp.”

“I am not partnering with Amber, why would I walk it?”

“You can’t be serious about it, Gautam.”

“Very much am.”

His fancy blue BMW rounded the ramp and stopped in front of them. He smoothly passed the tip and she settled inside the passenger seat. The car was luxury, of course. Her father had one of these too. But this was an SUV model, a lot more… beastly. Like the man who settled into the passenger seat — sophistication on the outside, but something more wild on the inside. Today she had seen a glimpse of that inside, that wild in him. In a man she had believed was suave and calculative.

He carefully sped down the ramp and into the wide streets of BKC. The commercial city was quiet at this time of the night, only the hotels, restaurants and bars buzzing with activity. This part of Mumbai was truly futuristic, pretty with cycling tracks and clean wide sidewalks. The squares were always lit up and the roads were silky smooth.

“I live just two lanes away from the office, I’ll show you.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Huh?”

“I said are you hungry? It’s dinner time.”

“Yes, I am always hungry lately.”

“Do you want to eat something?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything is fine with me.”

“Vada pav, roadside mysore masala dosa and Energy milk. Coffee flavour… no wait,” she salivated. “No coffee. Strawberry flavour. Let’s go to Mithibai.”

“Are you even allowed street food?”

“Only the cooked type.”

He did not speak then, driving them into the main suburbs. But instead of Vile Parle, he veered the car towards Khar.

“Mithibai is that way…”

“I am not feeding you street food. If something happens, I don’t want that on my conscience.”

She rolled her eyes. On the next signal he reached out and dialled a number on his car system — “You’ve been to Farmer’s Cafe?”

“Yes,” she grunted.

“I am calling them, decide your order.”

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