Page 96 of Made in Mumbai

“No. No end of discussion. She is your mother. Go to her once. Maybe for the last time. You don’t have to do anything, just go and see what she wants, if there is something you can do…”

“No.”

“Gautam,” he warned.

“No, Kumar bhai. No. I am not becoming that person again. And I always become a weak, begging kid in front of her, however rich I am. The last time she took all the money I offered and then asked me to come back next month with more than this. I am not going back there again.”

“She may die…”

“Let her!” He spat. Kumar bhai sat back quiet.

“You know Kumar bhai, I can’t.”

He nodded. Then lay down on the bed and spread his arms wide. “Chal, so ja.”

Gautam stared at the starfish-shaped sardar beginning to snore on his bed. When Gautam had let him self-invite himself into his room, he had forgotten how Kumar bhai slept. He eyed the leftover space and regretted not clearing his office room’s bed.

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Kumar bhai wanted to leave the next day, but Maya being Maya, made a ruckus to stop him. She made every dramatic plea, exhausted all her sweet-talk quota and at the end — tempted Kumar bhai with her Diwali speciality — ‘Gujarati Dal na Wada.’ And just like that, their Diwali plans were reworked, Maya being the ringmaster.

She got them both to work. In record time she had ordered a ton of string lights and had them climbing on balconies and deck railings to string them along. In half-circles, exactly ‘this much’ apart — ‘this much’ being her two hands that kept changing the measurement every time they rose. The house was cleaned, the kitchen was cleaned — not by her but by the two erstwhile truck drivers who couldn’t see a pregnant woman hold her belly and wipe down the platform. She was such a drama.

On Dhanteras evening, the day of Goddess Laxmi, she laid out three silver coins in a steel plate, one for each of them. And from where she got it he didn’t know, but she had the makings of a full pooja in another platter. Dressed in a forest green saree that made her figure look even more lush, forcing them both into kurtas, she had Laxmi Poojan done for the first time in his house. As all of Mumbai did their own Laxmi Poojan by dusk and celebrated with crackers, she and Kumar bhai opened a pack of fuljhadi and they went out on the deck to burst them.

If Gautam thought that was the limit of festivity, then he was in for a surprise on Diwali. She had completely taken over his kitchen, she and Kumar bhai, prepping for the big ‘Gujarati’ Diwali dinner. Apparently, after you performed ‘Chopda’ Poojan or the worship of your new account books for the new year, you would have a set meal of dry potato sabzi, red gravy paneer, sweet and sour dal, dudh-paak kheer, puri and some special pakode that they called ‘dal wada.’

She had called a brahmin to perform this particular pooja and by evening, she had designed rangolis at his entrance and in a corner of the house that faced east. Kumar bhai didn’t comment on it, but he didn’t have to. He was proud and happy and looking like a Maya Kotak devotee as he followed her everywhere, did her bidding, and even gave him those ‘looks.’

At dusk again, Gautam found himself in a kurta-pyjama, sitting between Maya and Kumar bhai, performing the elaborate pooja of a couple of account books that again, she had procured. He had argued that they didn’t use physical account books anymore, so she had also carried his Mac and placed it in the pooja, engaging the Punditji in a discussion on modern day chopda poojan. It was lively, and peaceful, and hopeful, this poojan, where they prayed together as a family for a prosperous and flourishing new year.

And if he thought her Diwali ended there then he was mistaken. Because just as massive fireworks began to light up the city’s moonless skyline, she pulled him and Kumar bhai down to the eco-deck garden of his building, where society members were all wishing each other, bursting crackers, taking selfies. He knew most of them by face and name, but Maya talked to them like she had gone on teas and dinners to every household, introducing Kumar bhai like he washerlong-lost friend. It was too much — the laughter, the happiness, the light of the firecrackers. And Gautam couldn’t stop smiling as she brought a fuljhadi and handed it to him. He held it because she had given him, searching for the nearest kid to pass it on to. But Maya just held onto his wrist and circled it in big rounds, like they were little kids themselves. He laughed, and this time, he did become a part of her exuberance. She was enamoured by some young kids bursting rockets and anaars and chakris. She couldn’t do it. So he took her back far enough to stay away from the fumes, and burst crackers for her.

Every time an anaar or chakri went up in sparks under his hand, he looked back at her instead of the cracker. Because every time, Maya’s pretty eyes lit up. And with them, he could see every part of him light up. It was becoming increasingly difficult to not address that question Kumar bhai had asked him the first night. And he liked it.

18. Gulon Mein Rang Bhare

“G…Gautam, good morning,” Sahyadri entered his open office, then stopped short at the sight of Maya and Trisha sitting on his couch.

“Please come in, Trisha,” he nodded from his chair. “Take a seat.”

“I can come later…”

“No need, they are here for this. Come.”

She entered his office on shivering legs, running a hand down her hair and trying to act confident as she took her seat in front of him.

“How was your Diwali?” He asked.

“Huh? Oh... good. Good.”

“Good. Now, I would like you to repeat to me what was said on the night of the Diwali party in Made in Mumbai.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Gautam…”

“Repeat, Sahyadri. I have 59 other employees to corroborate, 1 HR and 1 victim sitting right here.”

“So you complained?” She turned acidly towards Maya.

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