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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.
Sum of Two Wholes
Total Siyapaa
Neha Sharma
Table of Contents
“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
