I dread M-words.

Monday. Morning. Meeting. Mia.

There you go, that's my agenda in an almost-sentence. In the short span of time where you were busy with mundane tasks of the mundane week, psychoanalyzing me in the back of your mind —don't lose hope in me just yet—I did something selfless.

I offered a young, bright secretary, who recently went out of work, some work.

Fine, I am stretching it. I'm desperate for a secretary who can manage the mundane tasks of the mundane week, without airing the dirty laundry, while making me look like I do give two shits about what goes on around here. Not too much to ask for someone of her caliber, is it?

But as she sits in front of me, contemplating over a very generous offer, Mia squints her eyes at me as if I am the tough nut to crack. "Hmm. I'll suggest a few changes."

"I'm all ears."

The offer letter is right in front of her. She scoots over to grab a pen from the holder and starts scribbling. Frankly, I'd agree to any raise she recommends because it's rare to find a recruit bold enough to ask for what she wants. Merely half a minute passes before she hands the paper back to me.

I read over the extra zero she has appended over the HRA, commute, medical insurance, and signing bonus. However, "Forty five days of paid leaves? I'm sorry, who's the secretary here?"

"Not me," she says, capping the pen. "But your new secretary will be super-grateful. Introduce them to me someday, yeah?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not accepting this job, Karan."

I am weak at math. May be that's why this doesn't add up to the reaction I was expecting. Nevertheless, I persist. "60-days of paid leaves."

"Make it six months, and you still won't find me behind that desk."

"Do you have another offer? I am willing to contest."

Her giggle is so smug that it makes me reconsider my desperation. "Well, none of them are offering so much for sitting still and looking pretty."

I smile along to humor her. "Then why won't you want to work at a place that values work-life balance?"

"Because I am not going to work for someone who isn't passionate about their work to begin with."

Well, ow. She wants me to beg, doesn't she? I lean forward, toying with the pen, scrawling another zero at the end of the base package. Now that was an irrefutable compensation.

"May be you should get to know me better. I am a very passionate guy."

"Karan, stop." She pulls the pen from my grip and slips it back on the holder. "I know what you are trying to do, and your efforts are in vain."

"Arvika shouldn't have fired you, Mia. I'm just trying to help you out here."

She glares at me, humor shifting to anger instantly. "Well, I am gonna have to respectfully decline your charity because, one, I refuse to be a pity project, and two, I am not going to be your puppet for some stupid revenge."

She doesn't know what the fuck she is talking about. But it is hard to remain calm when someone pokes you where it hasn't healed. "There is no revenge in the picture, nor are you any pity project. I know how hard you worked as a secretary, and I am in need of one. I think this would be mutually beneficial."

"Mutually beneficial, because she fired me the same day she declined your proposal? Mutually beneficial because you think I am heartbroken over a matter that was out of her control and, oh, what would be better than joining forces and making her regret it, right?"

Okay, right, there it is. She has clearly joined forces with you to ride the psychoanalysis train. I lick my lips, standing up, and turn my back to her. The skyrise offers a beautiful view to those who seek it. Right now, I'm seeking to punch the glass wall instead.

"You are a passionate guy, Karan," I hear Mia say. "But this... this isn't you."

Driving a hundred and fifty miles just to check up on someone whose maternal grandmother passed away?

Fucking shit, this wasn't me.

Most Indian newspapers had covered the (not so) sudden death of Mrs. Yatis, but in the US, I found out about it through Arnav's status on literally all his social media accounts. Neither him, nor his sister were close to the late Dhwani Yatis, so I had wondered why Arvika hadn't posted those scripted messages too.

All I could think of was the olive branch she had thrusted into my hand to get back my trust. The voice recording of her grandmother, ranting away trade secrets in her drunken stupor, was still in our chat records. In that particular moment, I didn't feel too good about that possession.

Her Aussie roomie didn't warn me about her mood while letting me in, so a hairbrush hitting me smack dab on the face was not the exact greeting I was prepared for.

"For fuck's sake, Vincent, I said I'm not in the mood. Leave. Me. Alone!"

That explained the angry senior I had crashed into on my way up. Wait, in retrospect... she's had a kink for men with a V—okay, we can laugh about that later.

"Namastey to you too. I can do with a hairbrush."

"Karan? What the heck are you doing here?"

Fair question. She gawked at me from her position on the bed, tucked inside a cocoon of blankets. Look, I'm no OCD about cleanliness, but that day was a shocking contrast to even my habitat, let alone Arvika's. Shades drawn down, cans of cheap beer and stinky pizza stacked under the bed, a hamper overflowing with clothes— and whoa, some risqué lingerie.

Focus, Karan. She was waiting for an explanation. Right, uhm... What the heck was I doing here?

"Underground Underdogs called me. They have a race tonight."

Her face peeked from underneath the blanket. "Why would you want to go back there again?"

Well, one must never forget where they came from. In exchange for free weed, my roommate had challenged me into an off-the-chart race, 10 laps. I lost that tournament, and to rub salt on my wounds, I learned that the fucker had tricked me into the game to save the cash he had bet on another driver.

So to give him a taste of his own fucking weed, I continued in the field. Underground Underdogs was... fine, it was illegal—but it got me addicted to the sport. Bets were placed, odds were raised, cash was swapped, and before I knew it, I was chasing the official F3 league.

Vika had been to the UU races a few times. Her concerns about the illegalities were  masked underneath the complaints of it not being her scene, but she and I both knew that betting on me is what afforded her that Victoria's Secret. 

Those days though, were in the past now. F3 Academy fine-tuned that aggression for the sport. Getting caught in a UU League now could pretty much get me thrown out of the official tournaments.

"Chillax,"—cringe, yes—"Let's go for a drive though, shall we?"

We hit the expressway half hour later. I'm not sure what exactly I was trying to do or prove with all this, but having her in the passenger seat, jamming off-key to Miley Cyrus, gave me some sense of relief. However, this is Arvika we are talking about and diving head-on into tackling the elephant in the room gives her some sorta high.

"You were worried about me naa?" she said, head against the window.

I denied, obviously. "I need you to bet on someone new. He's a promising guy, my sources tell me."

She turned the music down. "When Daadi passed away, I was devastated."

Oh, I remember. I'd never seen her so shut-out before that.

"Par Naani ke death ke news ka mujhe kuchh farak hi nahi padh raha, pata hai? I mean, I spent like, eight years living with her. That should affect me, right?"

So much for driving 150 miles on a weekday. I pursed my lips, glancing at her before concentrating back on the road. "Vika, that's alright. You weren't close to your Naani."

"But she was always looking out for me and Mom. She was weird, she was rude, she was insufferable, but she..."

Trusted you with a piece of information and you bartered it for my trust instead.

"...was still my grandmother," she finished. "Doesn't that make me a bad person?"

The No-that-makes-you-a-human bullcrap was on the tip of my tongue. I shrugged instead.

"Sometimes, I wonder who's gonna cry when I die. And if like, no one does, does it mean I was a bad person? But yaar, fir yaad aata hai ki mere Dad mere Dad nahi hai, aur jo mere Dad hai unhe shayad ye pata bhi nahi hai ki woh mere Dad hai. Toh unhe farak padega bhi kyu? Kya mujhe fark padega if my real Dad, you know, passes away without ever acknowledging me as his son? I don't know. Honestly, how does it even matter if someone cries after you are dead? Because, you know, you're already dead."

The words had carried the weight off my chest. The silence that followed made me reach out to increase the volume. My monologue had fazed her enough to momentarily forget about not being able to grieve. Her hand came upon my knee, giving it a light squeeze of assurance. "I'll cry when you die. Terms and conditions applied."

I scoffed. "Them being?"

"One, you don't kill me with you. Two, you don't die while racing."

"Yes, that makes you a terrible person."

Our chuckles floated with the wind as she rolled her window down. And with those sniffles of laughter, came her tears. She didn't wipe them away. I didn't offer her tissues. We drove for hours. When the sun finally set, I pulled my phone out and deleted the audio clip that had held me hostage.

I mean, she was my friend. Terms and conditions applied.

_____

Namoshtaii!

The last scene is inspired from a Korean Drama I had binged two years ago, called Uncontrollably Fond. There's this extremely emotional scene where the female protagonist, in her high school years, starts bawling her eyes out, finally feeling free enough to do so. It made me realize that being able to let those tears run free without the fear of judgment is an underrated privilege. Also, speaking of Korean Dramas, Little Women has me HOOKED. So far, 3 episodes are out on Netflix, and if you are looking for a dark, mystery-thriller watch with badass sisters, this is the one for you.

You know, these days I am seriously considering making wattpad related reels but then I realize that I actually have no clue what I can offer other than recommendations. I am trying to be consistent again. So, if you are here in spite of my confusing updating schedule, thank you. And a bada wala thanks to Sanya_Goel for smacking sense into me every time I think I have no more writing left in me. 

Major thanks to ughhmaybeits_Titli for the lovely digi-art in the banner!

Read, vote, comment, promote!

~Shubhodiya