Chapter 38: The Second Summer

The second summer arrives without announcement — the way Mumbai's summers always arrive, not as a date on a calendar but as a sensation on the skin. One morning in April the air is: tolerable. The next morning the air is: an assault. The transition is: absent. Mumbai doesn't transition into summer. Mumbai is: ambushed by it.

I've been in Mumbai for fifteen months.

Fifteen months since the auto-rickshaw and the salwar kameez and the building where the mailbox didn't have my name. The mailbox has my name now. The building has my name now. The city has my name now — not literally (Mumbai doesn't learn names; Mumbai learns: faces, habits, the particular way a person walks through a crowd, the walking that marks you as: belonging or not-belonging, and my walking has shifted from not-belonging to belonging in fifteen months, the shift being: visible to anyone who watches).

The second summer is: different from the first. The first summer was: survival. I didn't know where to buy groceries. I didn't know which auto-rickshaws to trust. I didn't know the route from my apartment to Seaside Fitness without Google Maps. The first summer was: the summer of a tourist. A tourist in her own life.

The second summer is: the summer of a resident. I know where to buy groceries (the kirana store on the lane behind Carter Road — the store run by Dinesh, who knows my order before I order it because I order the same things every week and Dinesh has memorised my habits the way he's memorised every regular's habits, the memorisation being: his profession and also his: art). I know which auto-rickshaws to trust (the ones parked outside Seaside Fitness at 7:30 AM, because those drivers have been vetted by Rohit, the gym's unofficial auto-rickshaw quality control department). I know the route. I know the shortcuts. I know the pothole on Hill Road that will break your ankle if you're not: watching.

I know Mumbai. Not the way Chetan knows it (Chetan knows Mumbai the way a writer knows a city — through stories, through history, through the invisible architecture of memory). Not the way Vandana knows it (Vandana knows Mumbai through: people, through the network of relationships that she maintains the way other people maintain: databases). I know Mumbai the way a resident knows it — through the body. Through the feet that have walked the streets. Through the skin that has sweated in the heat. Through the lungs that have breathed the air. The knowing that is: physical, not intellectual. The knowing that makes a city: yours.

At Spark & Co, the second year brings: new challenges. The Doosri Chai campaign has won awards and produced: expectations. Expectations that the next campaign will be as good. Expectations that I will be as good. The pressure that success produces — the pressure that says: you've proven you can do this once, now prove you can do it: always.

The new client is: a financial services company. Not the emotional territory of chai — the sterile territory of mutual funds and insurance policies and the language that financial companies use, the language that says "your future is: secured" while meaning "our profits are: secured." The language that I have to: transform.

"I hate this brief," I tell Zoya. We're at the desk — the hot desk that has become: my desk, because after twelve months of sitting here every day the hot desk has cooled into: territory. My territory. Marked by the Saraswati and a photograph that Jai gave me (the Carter Road sunset — the one where Jaya and I are walking and the sea is orange and the photograph says: these two women are going somewhere) and Zoya's cold coffee, which has migrated from her desk to mine because proximity produces: sharing.

"Nobody likes financial briefs," Zoya says. "Financial briefs are: the vegetables of advertising. Necessary. Unexciting. You eat them because: health."

"I need to find the human in this. The way we found the human in Doosri Chai. The chai was: the vehicle. The human was: the driver. This mutual fund needs: a human."

"Who's the human?"

"Everyone. Everyone who saves money and hopes the saving will become: enough. Everyone who puts aside a thousand rupees a month and hopes that the thousand rupees will grow into: a safety net. The hope that money represents — not the money itself but the: hope."

I write. Not the tagline — not yet. The manifesto first. The brand story first. The human first.

You don't save money. You save: mornings. The morning your daughter gets into IIT and you say "haan, kar lo." The morning your parents need surgery and you say "main hoon." The morning you retire and you look at the sea and you say "maine kar liya." You don't save money. You save: the ability to say yes.

Zoya reads it. "Didi. This is going to make people open: savings accounts."

"That's the idea."

"That's also going to make me cry. Financial products shouldn't make people: cry."

"Everything should make people cry. Crying is: the only proof that communication has: landed."

The work continues. The work that I love — not love in the grand way that people talk about passion (passion is: exhausting, and I'm fifty and I don't have the energy for exhaustion). Love in the small way. The love of sitting at a desk and finding the right word. The love of Zoya saying "didi, this is good" and meaning it. The love of Prerna reading my copy and nodding — the Prerna-nod, which is: the highest compliment in the building because Prerna doesn't nod at things that don't: deserve it.

At the gym, the routines continue. Zumba on Mondays (Preeti ma'am is training for another Garba Special — "this year we're going to ten, not two hours, which is: either ambition or sadism"). Yoga on Wednesdays and Fridays (Sunaina has started teaching a new class called "Yoga for Grief" which is: packed every session because Mumbai is: a city of people carrying things, and the carrying produces grief, and the grief needs: a mat).

Vandana and Sanjay are: working. Not fixed — working. The working that relationships do when relationships decide to: continue despite the damage. Sanjay got the Worli job. He comes home every evening. He doesn't extend. The not-extending being: the act of love that Vandana needed, the act that says: I'm here. Not leaving. Here.

Jaya's book sells. Not bestseller numbers — but steady. The steady that publishers call "a strong debut" and that means: the book found its readers, and the readers found: themselves in the book, and the finding is: the point. Kavitha (the agent) is talking about: a second book. Jaya is talking about: writing it.

Aditi has been promoted. At her tech company. The promotion that she earned by: being brilliant, which she has always been, and by saying no to a proposal and yes to her own ambition, which she has been: since Chapter 11.

Jai's MoMA exhibition happens in September. He'll fly to New York. His first international trip since: the stopping. His mother's hands will hang in a museum in Manhattan and people who don't speak Hindi will look at them and see: beauty that transcends language. Which is: the definition of art.

And Chetan. Chetan is writing a new novel. He won't tell me what it's about. "Writers don't discuss: works in progress. Discussing kills the: mystery. And mystery is: the fuel." But I've seen his notebook — the notebook he writes in longhand, the notebook that sits on the Marine Drive railing while he pours Meera's chai into the sea — and I've seen my name. Not the whole sentence. Just my name. "Madhuri" — in Chetan's handwriting, which is: beautiful the way his prose is beautiful, the beauty of: a man who takes words seriously and who treats even handwriting as: an art.

He's writing me. Into a novel. The novel that will contain: a version of me that is not me but that is made of: me. The way Jaya's autofiction is made of: truth that has been shaped. The way all writing is: the writer's life, refracted through: craft.

"You're writing about me," I say. Marine Drive. Saturday morning.

"I'm writing about: a woman. Who she is: undefined."

"She has short hair and silver jhumkas and she works in advertising."

"That's: coincidental."

"She lives in Bandra and her son cooks paneer butter masala."

"Many women live in Bandra."

"She tastes like: chai."

He looks at me. The look that Chetan gives when the conversation has arrived at: the real thing. The look that says: you've found me out.

"She tastes like chai," he confirms. "And the novel is: the story of how she learned to taste like: herself."

"That's: my story."

"That's: every woman's story. You're just: the one I happened to notice."