Page 73 of Made in Mumbai

“11.30. I’ll inform Trisha that I’m taking an hour off, don’t worry,” she rolled her eyes.

“I’ll drive you.”

“Arey, I’ll be back in office on time.”

“And I said I will drive you. I cannot trust you with a rickshawala. You’d start chatting with him and make him lose the way.”

“You know what?”

“What?”

Her eyes rolled around, thinking. Then the anticlimax of Maya-anticlimaxes — “Don’t talk to me!”

He didn’t, but he held her tight and laughed. Kept laughing.

14. Tum Ko Dekha Toh Yeh Khayal Aaya

Gautam fastened his watch and walked out of his room, running a hand through his still-damp hair. It was 8 already and he had to see if Maya was ready for office. If he was lucky, she would have just woken up. But in her defence, she had to report to office at 10, not go and open it like the sociopath he was.

Delicious smells wafted from his kitchen. Pots and pans made music. And the lead vocal, of course, who other than his roommate? Gautam smiled, tapping his fingers on his thigh to her rendition of ‘Mere Mehboob Mere Sanam.’ He turned the corner and froze.

She was ready to go, looking mesmerising in a bright yellow top over formal white bottoms. Her top showed off the creamy skin of her bare shoulders, the fabric flowing leisurely over her belly, making it noticeable only if she turned a certain way. The sight of her was cutting off his oxygen supply. Thank god he spotted a matching white jacket to go over it on the counter as she sang and danced around his kitchen. Her hair was up again in that wavy ponytail, making him want to pull it down and play with her hair. He had experienced firsthand how soft it was.

Gautam closed his eyes, willing himself to get his mind out of the gutter.

“I am next in line for Sangeet Samrat, thanks,” Maya’s perky quip made him open his eyes. And she stood right in front of them, smiling up at him. He was still frozen.

“Good morning,” she cocked her head, opening those big Bambi eyes and batting her lashes. His thumb reached out and rubbed at the dusting of flour on her cheek — “Good morning.”

He could feel the moment stretch and engulf her too. Her body, slowly and surely, stilled. Maya had the skill to break any moment with her brand of humour, but her mouth remained shut, her eyes meeting his, then going to his mouth, then back up — as if she was stuck in limbo like him too. Her throat worked, probably swallowing all the things that he wanted to say or do too.

“M…” he caressed the line of her jaw, his mouth jealous of his thumb. She swayed closer, her eyes closing. His mouth covered the rest of the distance, replacing his thumb, and finally, finally touching her skin. It moved up another inch, kissing more skin, feeling every little spark flowing through her flesh.

A cooker whistle tore through their bubble and he reared back, just a smidge away from her mouth. She recoiled too, scampering to the platform, turning off the burner, spreading out steel tiffin boxes, then stacking them back up. He had never seen her so ruffled.

“Umm… Are you ready to go?” He asked, adjusting his belt.

“Yes… just let this cooker cool down and I’ll fill our pulav. Everything else is ready.”

That’s when he craned his neck to check her handiwork. She had filled two small stackable steel tiffins with bhindi, roti and curd. The last stack was waiting for the pulav.

“M, you didn’t have to make lunch…”

“Why?” She turned, hand on her hip. “Do you eat cells and batteries in the day?”

He rolled his eyes, walking to his coffee machine to make a cup. He switched between tea and coffee, or sometimes nothing. Today he definitely needed coffee. His brain was misfiring on multiple levels.

“I’ve mashed up some avocado guacamole for toasts if you want…” she offered as he got his coffee flowing.

“What did you eat?’”

“Just toast.”

“Why?”

“My stomach needs to be eased into the day.”

“Still?”

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