While he was in Lucknow, his grandma advised that he might as well apply to local agencies. God knows when you might get lucky she used to say often. For the first few months it was the same old story. “Sorry, you don’t have any experience. Build a portfolio first and then come and see me,” was all he heard from potential employers. Vishal was completely flummoxed. He couldn’t fathom the fact that how in the hell was he supposed to gain experience and build a portfolio, if he isn’t given a goddamn job. Getting a break in advertising and that too as a copywriter was tough, the fact he was reminded of wherever he went.

But finally after a lot of resumes and interviews, he managed to get a job in a small agency. And a small agency in a small town like Lucknow means a really small one. But he kept applying to other agencies side by side. He eventually got an interview call from one of biggest advertising agencies, ‘Impossible is Nothing.’ They required couple of junior copywriters. But the time of the interview was Monday, 1 p.m. So, if he were to go, he would have to during the office hours and that meant he would have to lie to his boss. Who was going to give up on an entire day’s salary by taking an off for an interview that might or might not work out. That was his rationale. So after thinking of heaps of excuses, he zeroed in on one.

“May I come in sir?” asked Vishal, as nervous as if he was going to ask a girl out.

“Come in,” his boss said.

His boss had no background in advertising. He has no idea about copywriting or graphic designing, the two of the most important aspects of advertising. Yet he owns an advertising agency. How ironic? Vishal often wondered. Mr. Rauf Ali was a middle aged, tall fellow. He had maintained himself well with no signs of an emerging pot belly that was evident in Muslim men over 35.  He had slight graying hair at the temples and had a weird sense of dressing. Mr. Rauf Ali was always seen wearing long Chinese collar shirts with the first two buttons undone and was clearly a size or two bigger for his average structure. A stickler for the 70’s bell-bottoms, he wore them in varied hues of browns and grays. He had a peculiar way of holding a cigarette, between his ring and middle finger and used to take quick short puffs from his cigarette, as if he was trying to finish it off before someone snatches it away. Mr. Rauf Ali was well known for his penchant for women, particularly young women. Even though he was married with young sons, one of whom worked in the agency in the marketing department, he unabashedly mingled with the new female business development executives, indulging in gossip and cracking non-veg, suggestive jokes.

“Yes?” Mr. Rauf Ali asked without looking up from his latest Penthouse magazine that he was deeply immersed into. His office had a recliner, a comfy leather couch and huge leather chairs, although the rest of the office looked like roadside motel. He was sitting in one of his chairs. When Vishal didn’t answer for a while, Mr. Rauf Ali looked up and caught Vishal trying to have a peek at the blond model that he was ogling at. Vishal realizing what happened quickly pretended to be admiring the paintings on the wall over Mr. Ali’s head.   

“I believe you came in to tell me something,” said Mr. Rauf Ali, smoking his cheap blue and white striped Charminar cigarette. 

“Umm, y-yes sir,” stuttered Vishal.

“So what are you waiting for? Shoot,” Mr. Rauf Ali said sharply, hinting that he was not one bit amused by this interruption.

“Sir, I need a little time off today after lunch. I have to go home. My uncle is a little ill, so I need to take him to the doctor,” Vishal said, relieved that all that he was saying was making perfect sense and there was every chance that Mr. Rauf Ali would not refuse. Mr. Ali surprisingly didn’t ask any further questions and allowed Vishal to go, but on the condition that he would come back as soon his work got over. Vishal thanked him profusely and the moment he stepped out of his cabin, Mr. Rauf Ali’s eyes darted back to his raunchy magazine. One thing had always puzzled Vishal. How did Mr. Rauf Ali get his hands on these magazines every month? They weren’t cheap. He couldn’t get Vishal, David Ogilvy’s, “Ogilvy on advertising” that he so badly needed to draw inspiration for his work, but was quite happy splurging on porn. Vishal shook his head in disgust, collected his bag and rushed for his interview.

Reaching there just on time, he went straight to the receptionist, who wasn’t the least bit interested in Vishal or his scheduled interview. All his attempts to gain her attention went futile, as she was busy chatting to someone on the phone in Hindi. Mina Dixit, read her id card pinned on her orange and green colored sari. He was quite taken aback by the coarseness of her language. It was something he didn’t expect to encounter at such a well-known ad agency. She is supposed to speak in English. Ad agencies are supposed to be fun he thought to himself, with bright colored walls and loads of good-looking girls. But all he saw was dull, off white damp walls and married women, all decked up with a dash of vermillion spread across the parting between their hair and their black and golden beaded necklaces that they wore to announce to the world that they were already taken and were some one else’s property. All the sex has sapped them dry. They look like dry mango seeds. I wonder how their husbands even get a hard on by looking at them.Tch!

The receptionist was still on the phone and here Vishal was getting impatient by the second. I don’t have the whole day you stupid old cow. I have to get back to work where Mr. Rauf Ali might have finished his Penthouse. Finally the receptionist was done and gave an irritated look to Vishal who had been hovering around her desk all this while.

“Yes,” she asked, quite abruptly, interrupting Vishal’s thoughts.

“Huh? Ya, I am here for the interview for the post of English copywriter and I would really appreciate if you could inform Mr. Faiz that I am here. I got to get back to my office real quick,” Vishal said, his impatience evident on his face and in his tone.

“Listen, you’ll have to wait for a while. There are other people who have come before you and their interviews are still on. You take a seat over there,” she said in a condescending tone and pointed towards an old chair with rusted legs lying in an abandoned corner. “I will let you know when your turn comes up,” she said with finality, ending the conversation. She went right back to make another call. He was amazed at the treatment that was being meted out to him. For all the while he had been there, he wasn’t even offered a glass of water. He tried to brush off these negative thoughts aside as he knew that the agency was doing good creative work and he might get to learn a lot if he got through.

He dusted the chair with his handkerchief and sat down and picked up a magazine kept on the lower rack of the coffee table in front of him. He was flipping through the pages, when a sharp voice calling his name, made him jump; it was the receptionist directing him toward the chairman’s cabin.

Vishal knocked on the door and was told to come in. The chairman stood up and shook his hands and requested him to take a seat. Quite a swanky cabin, Vishal thought. There was a crystal chandelier that looked disgustingly expensive and a humongous framed poster of a Canadian summer with maple leaves with a long narrow road, two cute, happy looking children, one boy and a girl walking hand in hand, wearing bright colored clothes. It read ““life is a beautiful journey, enjoy every moment of it.”” Vishal also noticed a portrait of the last supper, and a humongous metal idol of the elephant god decorated with garlands. There was a pleasant aroma in the room coming out of the three incense sticks fixed in a lotus shaped brass stand at the feet of the god. Everything was looking perfect.

But the one thing that did seem out of place was the chairman himself. He’d expected a balding, old man with loads of baggage and a stinking ego, but instead he found a smartly dressed young man, probably in his late twenties. Mr. Faiz Ahmed, CEO read the nameplate that was kept on the table. That’s when he realized that he was on that chair not because of his ability but because he was the son of the owner, Mr. Liaquat Ahmed. At that very instant he lost whatever respect he had for the man when he first entered the room. Vishal hated these family owned empires. He thought these people had it handed out to them in a silver platter.

After being asked a few dumb routine questions, he was as usual asked to give a copy test, a norm if you’ve applied for a copywriter’s job. An office boy bought him a sheaf of papers, a pen and showed him the place where he was supposed to sit and give his test. Vishal thanked him and went over to his desk. A girl was already sitting there, eyes closed, deep into thought. She was wearing a short, sequined, maroon and black colored short kurta. The jeans that she had topped it with, was bluish almost fading with flares at the bottom. Her sandals were high heeled, off-white in color. Her thick black curly hair streamed down her back like a black waterfall. Some part of her hair had streaks of golden brown color. She wore long earrings that dangled every time she replaced her hair at the back of her ears. She had a dusky complexion with an oval face, a cute pierced nose, a thin upper lip, but a full lower lip and a mole just below it.

Vishal introduced himself confidently, “Vishal, Vishal Iyer,” he said in his typical James bond style that he used when he didn’t know what else to do. He smiled and extended his hand. She looked up at him, smiled back, “Diya,” she said casually and shook his hand. He noticed how beautiful she looked when she smiled.

 “So have you applied for the post of a copywriter?” He asked.  

 “Yes and you?”

 “Same.”

 “Are you already working somewhere?” She asked.

 “Yeah I am at this small agency called, ‘The big ideas.’

 “Oh? Is it the one on the Bhandarkar road, near Lucky café?”

 “Yup, that’s the one. Have you been there before?”

 “Yeah I had gone there once for a copy test. But that was a long time ago. What was the name of that guy, Yaof? Shaof?” she said, clicking her thumbs to recollect the name.

 “Mr. Rauf Ali,” said Vishal, helping her out.

 “Oh yeah, that’s correct. That guy, eew, he gives me the creeps. He kept checking me out. For an old man like him to harbor such thoughts, yikes” she said, and shook herself to get his drooling image out of her thoughts.”

 “Yeah the pervert that he is. He’s still like that.”

 “Sad, isn’t it?” Diya said.

 “Yeah. Anyway let’s get back to the job at hand, shall we? Otherwise we are done for,” Vishal said pointing at the heaps of blank paper in front of him.

 “Hmm,” she said and started giggling.

 Each of them had been given different briefs to work with. He was given a scenario where the client was into the animation industry and she was given a brief about a client who was into the construction business. Apart from giving side-glances to each other, they also exchanged smiles now and then. He felt an instant connection with her. Half way into the test, he realized that it was close to 2. His stomach had begun to groan for food. He had a brilliant idea.

 “What about lunch?” he casually asked.

 “I don’t know. What are you going to do?”

 “Well I am thinking of going to a restaurant or something.”

 “Sure, then I will come too. Let me grab my purse.”

 “Don’t be silly. I got it.”

 “But why should you pay? Why not me?” reasoned Diya.

 “No arguments please,” said Vishal with fake seriousness. And it was settled. They made their way to the stairs.  

 “You know we should both get this job,” said Vishal after much thought.

 “Yeah that would be so much fun,” she said.

 “I would tell them, if you want me, you should take Diya as well, because we are like a dictionary and a thesaurus; we both come together, you can’t do without the other,” Vishal said, and burst out laughing at his own joke.

 “Good one. Absolutely,” Diya said, joining in with Vishal.

 After coming down, all they could find was a run down shack that was brimming with students from a nearby college. It had a roof made out of brown, dried straws. Both looked at each other, contemplated for a while, and then finally decided to have a look at least. The menu mainly had south Indian dishes like Idli sambhar, vada, dosa, uttapam, and filter coffee.

 “Hmm, so what do you want Madame?” inquired Vishal like a French socialite.

 “Whatever you are ordering for yourself, Monsieur,” she said and smiled.  

 “Two plates of vada sambhar please,” shouted Vishal over the constant din that hung over the place.

 “Yes sir,” hollered back the guy at the counter, while picking his nose with utmost pleasure. He was constantly fanning himself with a fan made out of peacock feathers. He was in a dirt colored vest with traces of all kinds of spices on it and wore equally dirty pajamas with both the strings hanging out from either side.

 “Chotu,” he called out. “Give the saab in the tie two plates of vada sambhar,” he ordered one of the many children who worked there. And we talk about abolishing child labor thought Vishal to himself. The funny part though was that each one of them was called Chotu and whosoever looked up was the one who was supposed to take that order.

 Vishal and Diya stood for almost 15 minutes or so before they could find a place to sit. He quickly grabbed the seats as soon as the young couple sitting at the far end left and gestured Diya to come over and join him, who was busy checking out a strange outfit worn by one of the girls there.

 “There’s our hot, suspicious looking vada sambhar,” exclaimed Vishal pinching his nose when the waiter placed two plates in front of them.

 “Don’t worry, if it turns out to be bad, we both will fall ill,” Diya said.

 “Yeah, that’s assuring,” he said and winked at her.

 It had been about half an hour since they had been out and realizing that, they hastily stuffed the remnants of the sambhar-dipped vadas and washed it down with a glass of water. They finished the copy test, submitted it to the not so concerned receptionist and came out.

 “So, will you be going home from here?” Vishal asked, worried that this chance meeting could end right here and he might not get a chance to see her again.

 “Yeah, there is nothing else to do here anyway. What are your plans?”

 
“I will get back to my office,” he replied. “Do you have any idea when will we hear from this agency?” he enquired, trying to prolong the conversation.

 “Umm, nope I have no idea, but they should probably get back to us in a week or so,” she replied. “Okay then I will see you around. Keep in touch, bye.”

 “How do you suppose that we keep in touch if you don’t give me your number dumbo?” he shot excitedly, relieved that the opening he was looking for was handed to him so conveniently.

 “Oops, I forgot I am so sorry. Give me a piece of paper, I’ll write my number down for you and you can give me yours.”

 After exchanging numbers, they both started walking their separate ways as they had different buses to catch.

 “Vishal, Vishal,” someone called out. He turned around and was pleasantly surprised to see Diya running towards him. His threw a quick thank you to God.

 “Yeah, what is it? Did you forget something? He asked.  

 “Umm, no. Actually I just remembered that I had to go to the printer’s. I would rush home after that. Would you like to come with me?”

 “Sure, but why do you want to go there?” asked Vishal, trying hard to hide his excitement that was written large on his face. The prospect of spending a few more hours with her, invoked in him a sensation he had not known before.

 “Ohh that! I had given the guy to print one of my designs. It’s for a client. So do you mind coming along? But what about your office?” she enquired innocently.

 “Don’t worry about it. I would call up and inform them.”

 “Let’s take a cab. It’s kinda far,” she suggested. He quickly checked his wallet when she was looking for something in her handbag. He had 200 odd rupees, quite enough he thought. When they got down, she offered to pay and opened her purse, but Vishal insisted that he will. They had to cross the main road to get to the printer’s. While crossing, their hands brushed against each other quite a few times. He could sense himself getting a hard on just by the thoughts of holding her delicate, feminine hands. But he didn’t have to wait for long. She held his little finger with hers; entwined like a telephone wire. Their eyes met and she blushed.  

 The printer’s place was a cubby hole. One had to crouch down to move and to make matters worse; there wasn’t even a table fan. Diya got busy with the printer guy telling him how many copies she needed. She wanted digital prints, which were expensive, around 15 bucks per page. She needed 10 copies. She took the printouts in her hand and started rummaging through her handbag for money. By then Vishal’s shirt had clung to his body. He got rid of the tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt to let some air in. Suddenly he pictured the disturbing sight of Mr. Ali in his mind and buttoned himself back. He noticed worry lines scrawled across her forehead. 

“What happened? You look worried,” asked Vishal with concern.

 “Drat, I forgot my wallet at home. I don’t know what to do now. I have to pay him.”

 “What am I here for?” comforted Vishal. “How much?”

 “150 bucks,” she said embarrassedly. Vishal sensed her discomfort and told her not to worry about it and handed the sum to the guy, who readily took it. He also smiled snidely while taking the money. Vishal felt for a moment that Diya smiled as well, but dismissed it as nothing.

 “Thank you so much Vishal. You are my savior. I would give this money back to you as early as possible, okay?” Diya said ingratiatingly.

  “Why are you treating me like a stranger? Where’s the money running away?” snarled Vishal, visibly hurt by her words.

 “Hey, I didn’t mean to hurt you. How about some coffee?” she said brightly.

 “Yeah let’s. Only thing is I got to make that call. You go into that café across the street, I will join you in a second,” he said. As soon as she disappeared into the café, he took out his wallet and checked for cash. He hardly had any, except a few rupees. He first called up his office to inform Mr. Rauf Ali that his uncle’s health had worsened, so he would have to stay with him, but he would surely come to office tomorrow. Mr. Rauf Ali reluctantly agreed and hung up. He shuffled out of the booth to find an ATM, which was right around the corner. He heaved a huge sigh of relief and went into the café with a confident gait of a man who had money and found Diya flipping through the menu card.

 “What took you so long?” she asked accusingly.

 “The call took a little longer than I thought. Anyway what do you want?” he asked, evading the question.

 “I will have a Barista special cold coffee and a brownie.”

 “Okay. You wait here, I’ll get it.” While he was waiting in the queue to place his order, a thought came to his mind. Didn’t she say that she had to rush home? Dismissing the thought with a shrug, he placed his order and came back to his seat.

 “How much?” she asked.

 “What how much?” he replied, knowing exactly what she meant.

 “The bill Einstein, what else?” she said mockingly.

 “Man, you are so formal. Just chill, okay,” he said. Although he hadn’t been on dates before, he had seen in movies and read in magazines how a man was supposed to behave on a date.   

 “I have to pay you the money you paid to the printer anyway. We will split this bill too and I’d pay you for this as well. There’s nothing formal about it,” she said as a matter of fact.

 “Fine. You win. You can pay me the money later, happy?” he said rolling his eyes.

 “Mr. Vishal. Your order sir,” called out the guy at the counter. Vishal bought the tray to their table. He had a good feeling about this. Never before had he spent so much time with a girl. He kept looking at her, admiring her as she sipped coffee from her mug. Soon they both finished their coffee…the moment Vishal was dreading. He didn’t want this day to end yet.

 “Hey, if it’s not too much to ask, would you mind a movie, only if you are not getting too late. There’s one great movie running nearby,” Diya said casually.

 “YES, Let’s,” said Vishal cheerfully.

 “Awesome,” said Diya excitedly. Stepping into the theatre, he held her hands again to guide her in the dark. God, thank you. You are the best he mumbled. Finding their seats, they settled. The movie, hailed as one of the scariest movie of the year begun. Vishal was waiting. The louder and scarier the movie got, the closer Diya moved to him, clutching his arms or hiding her face into his chest. After the movie got over, they both came out, Diya: shaken…Vishal: on top of the world. The dreadful thought of parting tugged at his heart.

 “I had a helluva time Vishal, thanks a bunch,” Diya said, leaning over to kiss him on his cheeks. Vishal blushed, turning from a brown to a pink in a matter of seconds. She hugged him. When her soft bosom pressed against his chest, a tickle ran down his entire body, making his hair stand up like army of marching ants.

 “Hey would you mind if I give you a call sometime?” he enquired hesitantly.  

 “Of course not. Do you think I would have given you my number otherwise you silly oaf,” cried Diya, lightly hitting him on his head with her palm.

 Vishal smiled peevishly and said, “Okay then, see you around, bye, take care, and I will call you sometime and yeah, I had a ball too.”

 “Sure, you take care too, bye,” she said. “Umm listen. Vishal, if you don’t mind, could you l-lend me some m-money. I think I will catch a cab. If I am any late that this, my dad would kill me,” Diya said, mortified at her own unreasonable demands.

 “Sure,” he said and handed over the remaining cash he had, keeping aside a little for his own bus ride back home.

 “Thanks so much, you are so sweet,” she said and hugged him again, making him blush for the second time that evening. “And yes, next time we meet, I will pay you everything I owe. Ok. No arguments,” she said.

 “Ok miss independent,” he said mockingly.

After seeing her board the cab, he dreamily walked towards his bus stop, smiling to himself. He couldn’t believe the day he had. This was the best day of my life. He smelt his hands, trying to catch a whiff of Diya’s alluring perfume. Sitting absentmindedly in his seat, he paid the conductor for his ticket. On reaching home he went straight to his room and lay on his bed trying to recollect everything. Then he took out a pad and a paper and decided to write a love letter to Diya, which he thought he would give to her the next time he met her. He sighed.

 Suddenly he had an impulse to call her and check whether she had reached home safely. Taking out the piece of paper on which she had scribbled down her number, he started dialing.

“Check the number you have dialed,” a monotonous recorded message in a female’s voice spoke into the receiver.

“Huh! What the hell?” He referred to the piece of paper again and dialed the numbers, much slower this time making sure he got each number right. The same voice droned in his ears. He dialed the number again and again and again. Same voice…different message.

 “This number does not exist.”