Neha Sharma - Total Siyapaa

NEHA SHARMAwas smitten by the written word in the first grade, while reading the school prescribed ‘Peter and Jane’ series, and it didn’t take long to realize she preferred fiction to reality, something that holds true even today.

In the real world, Neha has dabbled with copywriting, editing, short fiction and lifestyle features. Neha lives in Mumbai, and is currently working on her first novel.

Cover

About the Author About the Author About the Author Title Page one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen Copyright NEHA SHARMA was smitten by the written word in the first grade, while reading the school prescribed ‘Peter and Jane’ series, and it didn’t take long to realize she preferred fiction to reality, something that holds true even today. In the real world, Neha has dabbled with copywriting, editing, short fiction and lifestyle features. Neha lives in Mumbai, and is currently working on her first novel.

Title Page Sum of Two Wholes Total Siyapaa Neha Sharma

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

Copyright

“You promised I’d get a shot, Jenny.” Aasha’s voice was low and strained, barely audible above the continuous pounding of raindrops against the window panes. She stood with her back to her boss and her fists balled, at the other end of the cabin, which wasn’t really that far away considering only a bright yellow armchair stood between the two women. Still, Aasha felt it made a point.

The afternoon light was fading quickly into a dark spool cloaking the army of office blocks outside. Aasha followed the tiny dots of humanity rushing along the streets below, all under a canopy of opened umbrellas – the monotone of black artfully broken by pops of colour here and there. They moved as a unit to the rhythm of the rain: one-two-shuffle-quickstep-one-two. Aasha tried to count the mobile Londoners, much like she counted sheep as a child, in an effort to control her temper.

Aasha had been the first at the bureau to track the American spying scandal about two weeks ago. She had chased the international eavesdropping story from a snippet to a storm, much like the one gathered outside the window. A big story like this could turn her career around. It could be her ticket out of South Asia. She had worked on her own time, chasing lead after lead till she had enough information to share it with Jenny.

“What do you think, Jenny?” she had asked, pacing before Jenny’s small but sturdy teakwood desk. “It’s a story, right?”

“It is. It surely is. Listen, I’ll take this to the team.” Jenny pulled off her leopard print horn-rimmed glasses and set them on her head. Her green eyes that were locked on the story docket now focused on Aasha. There was a hint of pride in them, which in turn made Aasha flush. “And I promise if they run it, I’ll push for you. I know you want in on the Global News Team, and if this doesn’t get you there,” she waved the docket about, “well, I’ll be surprised.”

Those words had left Aasha’s mind aflutter. For the next two days she went about doing things in a slight daze. She tried to bump into Jenny around the office, but the woman only gave her a small smile and asked for some patience. To keep her mind occupied she made up tasks: she organized her files and cleaned out her hard drive; when she was done she rearranged her Kindle files. At home she took to cooking elaborate meals.

Aasha generally didn’t cook much: when she was at her flat, the fridge was always stocked with frozen lunches made by her mother – lunch boxes (usually old ice cream tubs) full of butter chicken, rajma, and kali dal , were a constant fixture in her freezer. Her usual culinary practices extended to microwaving home-cooked meals. On the weekends, during the holidays, and when the workload was minimal, she spent time at her parents’. On the off chance that she did need to cook, Aasha always went the whole mile, making everything from scratch.

She was in the middle of a Moroccan stew when the story broke. As waves of havoc were unleashed on this international broadcast, Jenny’s words came rushing back to her. Aasha poured herself a glass of red wine to calm her nerves and drained it in one go. The second glass she savoured, enjoying the rich dry nutty flavours as they hit the back of her throat.

“Jenny! I can’t believe this. Is this really happening?” she asked barely able to hold the phone still in her hand.

“It is. It is real,” Jenny’s quiet voice replied, “Let’s talk about it tomorrow OK? I’ll see you in my office at about ten in the morning.”

She had spent the rest of the evening clutching the wine glass, alternating between TV screen and window pane. Outside the overcast skies, the dark trench coats, and low-pulled hats, all perpetuated the espionage novel ambience, fuelling the story further; a story that Aasha helped uncover.

Aasha arrived at Jenny’s cabin well before time, twenty minutes early in fact. “She is in a meeting downstairs,” Ron, Jenny’s PA told her. “You can wait for her inside, but it might be a while.” Aasha didn’t mind. She made herself comfortable on the yellow chair, and reached out for a stack of magazines on the desk. She barely took in the words; her leg bobbed up and down continuously.

Jenny’s office was a lot like Jenny. There were no frills, no sentimental crap. Three big news stories were framed and put up on the wall, as was a Buddhist painting. On her table the only personal item was a photo frame with a toothless little girl in the arms of a doting dad, both grinning – Jenny’s daughter Sophie and partner Tim. On one side of her table sat a stack of magazines and newspapers. On the other was a vase with four lilies. That was it. Everything was clean and gleaming. Everything was ordered and organized.

“Aasha,” Jenny greeted her. When Aasha made to get up, Jenny waved her down. “Sit, sit.” Despite her five-inch heels supplementing her five-foot frame, people still towered over Jenny and she preferred talking to them sitting down.

“Sorry, I got held up a bit,” Jenny pulled her chair and settled down. When she made eye contact with Aasha it was with a hint of apology, “I’m afraid I have bad news, Aasha.” Jenny had been dreading this conversation and watching the light leave Aasha’s eyes made it worse. As Aasha got up and walked towards the window, Jenny tried to salvage the situation, “You’ll have to wait a little longer, but it will happen.”

When Aasha didn’t relent, Jenny continued, “I’ll keep pushing for you, Aasha, but till then you have to manage South Asia Hour. You’re very good at it, and you might even just like this next assignment.” Jenny held out a pink-purple folder for Aasha.

Aasha reached for the file, her shoulders slumped in defeat, “The Edinburg Music Festival?”

“The next big story,” Jenny added as a peace offering, “you’ll be on it. Let’s talk again when you get back from Edinburg, right?” Jenny swivelled around in her chair, making a slight squeaky sound in the process. She extended a perfectly manicured nail to the intercom button and issued an order. “Listen, Ron,” she began while her eyes remained fixed on Aasha, “put me down for a breakfast meeting with Aasha next week Monday. At the Orangery.”