by Natasha Gayari
I stare at my new tiger-print suede, pointed-toe pumps, and pretend to listen to the guy in the black coat. He is talking about the new project the new team has been roped in to work on. The guy sitting next to me shifts his gaze from the projection screen to my bare legs and back, every now and then. I wonder if I should pull down the edges of my black knee-length skirt a bit. I definitely could pull it up. For a nanosecond of fun.
Black coat is now talking about diagrams and designs. My mind contemplates on grand designs of how to say no to the new intern in the finance department; he had been dropping hints over the past few days about his interest in asking me out. Saying no isn’t the issue. How to be firm is. This is what happens when you live in with a workaholic, an excruciatingly practical boyfriend who you get to see once in two weeks, at times in the bed at night, and at other times at the dining table for breakfast. Guys from the finance department start looking hot.
“Who’s the designer?” Black coat jolts me out of my weekend thoughts. Everyone looks around. I hadn’t noticed the tall, lean fellow walking into the conference room. He pulls a chair, a comfortable distance away from the projection screen, right opposite to me. I don’t move my palms from under my chin. But my concentration shifts. The designer is wearing a square golden watch with a maroon leather strap. It reminds me of my uncle in Itanagar who used to work in the State Bank of India until his retirement.
Black coat throws a volley of questions at the designer. When he quiets down, the designer starts to speak. “Wokay. We are taaking of design hierarchical ardor.”
Design technicalities. I don’t get them. But something about the way he says ‘sexen divider’ gets him my attention. Maybe his lips. They are a perfect pout in a lean, longish face, and a hint of a smile slightly exposes his white uneven teeth. His receding hairline does not in the least make him look any older than he could have been. For, his eyes, they are round and inquisitive, framed with lashes that curl up to touch the lids. Baby looks with balding hair. I cover my mouth with my palm, trying to look attentive. But it’s not funny, I tell myself. I have never found guys with vermilion marks on their forehead interesting. Likable maybe. Not interesting. And this designer has a bright maroonish, long, thin vermilion mark drawn vertically along the whole of his forehead. Will I ever be able to pray to his god? I lower my head and suppress a smile. His fingers. Three gold rings frame two of his long fingers on the right hand. And when he turns his head sideways to look at the projection screen, a gold chain peeps from under his shirt collars. Jeez. What’s wrong with me?
“And that ij what aar odis aar. Before we give it to the yeditors…”
Our eyes meet for the first time. My heart almost skips a beat. I wonder if it’s him or my ignorance about this godforsaken project.
“Hew don’t need to worry…”
His ash color shirt now seems infinitely more alluring than anything else.
He turns his head to the other side, towards the direction of the guy in the black coat. “So ij it clear now? Yevryone?”
A long, straight cut mark on the left side of his face comes into full view. It runs along his temple down to his jawline. As if someone had attempted to slit his jaw years ago. It looks identical to the vermilion mark on his forehead, parallel even. A slight stubble makes it clearly visible from a distance. I feel a sudden urge to take a closer look and trace it with my forefinger.
“Wokay. So we will take care of design completely.”
Black coat looks at me, and then the designer. “Ankita. Srini. Will you both sit together and decide how you will coordinate the work flow at your end?”
“Yes, Raa…”
“Raajan.”
He eyes my bare knees for a moment and walks out of the conference room. Everyone starts to leave.
I walk up to Srini and sit on the chair next to him, my legs almost touching his. I don’t care about the skirt.
“Please explain to me how you want to go about doing this.”
“Naat to worry. Just wopen the folder. I will give you access. Work there. Send me a mail once yaar done. Simple.”
“Oh, thank you.” I stare at the mark on his face.
“Too many people. Too much confusion. Simply do yaar waark.”
“Yes. Thank you.” I smile at him. “You make it simple.”
“Welcome.”
“If I have any doubt, I will call you.”
“Please.”
“Bye.”
“Bye, Ankitha.” I rest my eyes for the first time, in what seems like ages, at the whitest teeth and the cutest smile being flashed at me.
I walk out of the conference room. Srini is still at his laptop. What if I had touched the mark on his temple with my finger? Would he have leaned closer, his gold chain dangling towards me? As I wave the thought away, I realize that Srini never for once looked at my legs. They were in full view for him to see, next to his, under the table. ‘Too many people. Too much confusion. Simply do yaar waark.’
I smile, and wonder if I’ll get to see my workaholic boyfriend at dinner tonight.
Pic : http://www.flickr.com/photos/aus_chick/
