The hundred teething problems of the newcomer I had borne to the hilt, but when she contested with me and also bulldozed, I swore vengeance. You know me—my nature; and you know I am not threatening. I know I would finally retaliate—but the risk made me ruminate. I must avenge but without the backlash. And, it must be complete, in that the wrongdoer must know—at least have an idea who her avenger was.
It was important that my demeanor didn’t betray the intention: I continued with the greeting, the smiling, and the helping; and the newcomer did not doubt my goodwill nor perceive that my friendliness was now at the cost of her ruin.
She had a weakness—this newcomer—although otherwise she was a woman well-respected and even well-liked. She prided herself on her accolades in music, especially her All India Radio grade (the much-sought-after gold seal for professional musicians). Few musicians were educated, let alone employed. Most of the time, their virtuoso was limited to performing concerts and practicing the art of performing and fawning upon concert hall secretaries. In advanced English like that of writing and editing, the newcomer, like the communication-crippled engineers, was a quack. But, with singing, she was true. Being a multi-disciplinary myself, I was not much different from her—except for the grade; I was singing very well myself, and sang wherever I could—in small gatherings or locally known concert halls.
One cool afternoon in the winter months of Margazhi, when the music festival was on a dizzying high, I met her. She greeted me with effusive gestures, for she had been praised excessively after her concert. The newcomer wore shining silk: bright parrot green-colored saree with a blue and gold embroidered border matched to a pink blouse; and her made-up face with jarring jewels housed ill-fitting dark glasses. I was never so pleased to meet her than that day.
So, I told her, “You sang so very well, dear, and you are in luck. I recently received lengthy manuscripts on music, and I am in doubt.”
“How?”asked she. “Impossible! And during the festival time itself.”
“Just today,” I replied; “and I am not sure how to edit. Though I have worked in editing for many years, and edited many management and professional textbooks, this is the first time I am attempting a book on music. As you were busy with the concert, I accepted them without consulting you.”
“Music book!”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Music book!”
“And I need a plan.”
“Music book!”
“As you are busy now, I am going to Shweta. She is a music scholar. She will provide…”
“Shweta cannot tell a Todi raga from a Bhairavi raga.”
“Yet people say that she sings as well as you.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To the office.”
“My dear, no; let me not impose this extra work on you. I see that your fans are starting to flock you. Shweta…”
“They are not fans; just little kids wandering everywhere and old buggers twiddling thumbs —come.”
“My dear, no; it is not the fans, but the severe straining your eye will be exposed to. The manuscripts are very lengthy and badly written.”
“Let’s go. Straining my eye—is nothing—is just part of the work. I have become used to it. As for Shweta, she can’t tell the difference between Todi and Bhairavi,” saying she picked her handbag; and clutching my arm, she hurried me to our office.
There was nobody at the editorial section in the office—a leading book publisher; my juniors had left to have fun at a book fair in the city. I had told them I will be out on official business the whole day, and had given them strict orders not to venture out, especially to the book fair. And, the moment my back turned, I knew, they would disappear; and I insured it.
At the door, the newcomer pressed her index finger on the ID machine, opened the door, pushed me in, and rushed to my computer. “After the two hour concert, you look really tired; why don’t you take a sip of this energy drink?” I handed my bottle.
Her golden bangles jingled as she raised the bottle and poured it into her mouth, taking care not to spill on her motley saree.
“The manuscript,” she said.
“Sure, let me login,” said I; “but look at the rolling-meadows wallpaper on my desktop.”
She turned to the computer, and looked into the picture with her dreamy eyes grazing the meadows.
The December cold had seeped into the large air conditioned room making even a temperature of twenty-five degrees celsius freezing cold. The newcomer rubbed her hands and arms for warmth.
“Hach! hach!, hach!, hach!, hach!, hach!
“Feeling cold, eh?” I asked.
Further series of sneezes followed. She took a few minutes to reply. “It is nothing.”
“Let’s leave.” I said looking serious. “We’ll go; you are catching a cold. You’re a fine singer, respected, admired; you’re accomplished and sought-after unlike me. Nobody will miss me. You will become ill and I don’t want to be held responsible. Besides, there is Shweta—“
“It’s ok,” she said; “a mere sneeze; nothing to worry about. My work will not stop because of the cold.”
“Yes—yes,” I agreed; “I don’t want to make you nervous unnecessarily though you have to be cautious. Have more water; it will bring down the cold.”
I again opened my bottle which I picked from the side table on my left.
“Drink,” I said, raising it to her.
She poured it into her mouth without touching the rim with her lips, paused, and smiled to me, while flashy, covering-gold earrings jingled on the motley blouse.
“Thanks,” she said, “to a friend.”
“You are welcome.”
She sat next to me, and we started.
“These manuscripts,” she said, “are very rare.”
“It deals with,” I replied, “the search for the origins of Carnatic music.”
She rolled her chair close to mine, adjusted my mouse pad, and took hold of the mouse.
“It has 800 pages,” she said; “and that will take a long time to edit.”
“Well…with you and me working, it should not take more than three weeks.”
“Make it two; and let me take the first five hundred pages right away.”
“OK. Let me copy it and send to your email.”
“Great. Thanks.” She said.
Her eyes sparkled as she read the author’s name. Scrolling down the file, she noted the title, chapter headings, and read through the abstract. My own manner melted watching her interest. We went through chapters dividing them between us; and pondered on the plan to divide the huge reference section and indexing.
“The cold!” I said; “see, it is chill. It is as chill as Antarctica. We are in Chennai where it is supposed to only be hot. But, this December is freezing. Come; let’s switch off the air conditioner before you really get worse. You’re cold…”
“Don’t worry. Let’s complete dividing the sections. Why don’t you give me another sip of that drink of yours?”
I handed the bottle and she emptied it in one go. Her eyes went wide. She pressed her stomach and adjusted herself on her chair.
“So, I heard you are also into music. Do you sing concerts?” She asked in a patronizing tone.
“Well, I perform too.”
“How many concerts are you singing this festival season?”
“Well, not many. There is this concert in a concert hall in Pammal.”
“Oh, Ok. Lesser-known concert halls…”
“But, I host music shows and interviews. I arrange music programs on the television. Singing to me, is just a hobby. Moreover, with this job, I hardly find time to practice singing, let alone sing concerts.” I replied.
“You multi-task!” she said with a sneer. “But, let us start. Have you sent a copy of the manuscript to my email?” She asked.
“Yes. You can check it in your computer.”
The newcomer rose to go to her cubicle on the other side of the corridor. I too went to her cubicle and sat down on a nearby chair. Switching it on, she logged into it; (and the corner of my eye made a mental note of her password), opened her email, and saw the manuscript sent to her through mine. Satisfied, she said, “Got it, thanks,” she said; “I had always wanted to edit a music book. You know for me, music is life. I had wanted to pursue full time performing when I worked as an analyst but couldn’t juggle the two professions. But, with an easier and effortless job like that of an editor’s, it is a dream come true.”
“I doubt if an editor’s job is easy.” I said.
“For people with less than two years of work experience in editing, it is not so.” Hinting at me, she retorted, but followed it with a squeal, “Aah!” Bending in and clutching at her stomach, she said, “Sorry, I have to go to the toilet.” There was an embarrassment on her face. I watched her kick her chair back, press the standard ctrl+alt+del, get up hurriedly, and rush all the while with the swish of her silk outfit and the jingle of her jarring jewelry.
The energy drink (strong laxative mixed with water) was taking its effect.
As soon as the door closed, I logged into her computer. This was the moment I was planning for, the last two months. I took my pen drive—carefully loaded with an important project’s pricing information; inserted into her computer swiftly; and copied them into her hard drive. Then, I opened her email, clicked, ‘compose message’, typed in all email ids of the senior management of my publisher’s competitors—about thirty; attached the sensitive file, and clicked ‘send’. I quietly removed the pen drive, slipped it into my handbag, deleted the sent mail, logged off, and awaited her arrival.
She came back; her saree all wrinkled. Wiping her hands on a small and worn-out handkerchief, she sat.
“On second thoughts, why don’t you take up the music book project completely?” I said. Her eyes sparkled, though watery from head cold.
“That will be great.” She said. “I feel so much better. Honestly, I was not happy with the junior position our company offered me. My work as an analyst also involved editing. But, they had no clue of the skills of my prior work and thought that I was a beginner. But, with this project, I will probably be able to show that I deserve better. Thanks for letting me do this.” There was warmth in her watery eyes.
“By the way, I met the security outside; and he said that he is going to lock the door as nobody is around. So, I guess we better leave.” She said.
After lunch the next day, when I was settling comfortably into my cubicle, I saw her rushing towards me. In a hushed tone, she said, “I heard the IT guys speaking in the cafeteria. One of them spoke of a sensitive file sent from my computer. The senior management is probing the issue, it seems…” Her face was all flushed red. “But I swear I didn’t do it.” She assured me nervously.
“But, how come you had access to the file?” I probed.
“I don’t know. I have no idea.”
“When did you send it?”
“I did not send it. But they said it was yesterday. I was so tired and confused.”
“But, in all the confusion, you still locked your computer before rushing to the toilet, didn’t you?”
“That’s true.”
“Did you check your sent mail folder?”
“I did; and no such mail was there.”
“I am confused now!” I replied, throwing my hands into the air.
There was a pause. Resuming, I said, “Hmm…you had better come up with a credible response when they probe you; otherwise they may file a case against you.”
“I don’t know what to say. I really cannot think!”
“It is possible that they may call the police.”
She held her breath. She felt dizzy. She put her hands on her head. She started sweating. She rubbed her face—already red—hard. She looked up and let out a prayer. She sighed. She shook her face—already contorted and red—more vigorously. She took sharp breaths.
In the evening when I left, I saw her slumped in her chair devoid of any movement.
I was early the next morning. And, when I opened my email, an automatic smile lit my face. I was copied on an email sent from the newcomer to the managing editor. The subject was written in capital and bold, “RESIGNATION”.
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