Over the next month, Martha endeared herself to all her colleagues,
except the snooty John D’Costa. He was a loner, evidently not used to working
in a team. He also appeared to be oblivious to women. He just lived and
breathed his work. He worked passionately and was a tough task-master. He lost
no time in letting Martha know that he was the Boss of his department. No
matter how hard Martha tried, she couldn’t prevent him from taking jibes at her
and commenting on her work. It was always “Didn’t you know that?” or “I thought
that it would be a cakewalk for you!” His tone always had an underlying “I told
you so!” tenor to it. Martha tried hard to maintain her cool but lost it one
day when he rejected a draft that she had finalized.
“Could you please tell me
what the heck is bothering you Mr. John D’Costa? Is it the fact that I am a
woman and you can’t tolerate sharing the same space as me or do you resent the
very fact that Norman has assigned me to your “all-important” department? Do I
seem to be a threat to your position here? If so, let me tell you that I am
just taking a break from my own work for a while and will not be around after a
couple of months or so. If you can’t bear my presence even for that period, you
can inform Norman that I am not wanted here. I can work just as well in any
other department.”
As he saw a huge tear roll down over her smooth cheek, he felt like
wiping it away with his thumb, but wisely refrained, fearing a stinging slap in
return. “Women!” He cursed inwardly. He watched as he saw her struggling to
regain her composure. He mutely handed a glass of water to her. She was
instantly reminded of their first eventful meeting. As she eyed him defiantly
in stony silence, he said, “You should’ve just asked me why I rejected the
draft instead of acting as if I just rejected you!” The instant he said that,
he regretted it.
“I’m sorry, Mara, I didn’t mean it that way,” he said with an abashed
expression on his face as she watched him with a disbelieving, indignant look
on her beautiful face. “You can say that again, Sir. I’ll have to report this
to Norman. You’re going too far.” Then as an after-thought, she asked him
curiously, “Well, why did you reject that draft?”
“The author has set his story during the First World War and has got all
his facts wrong! When we write fiction, we can’t alter history. You’ll have to
do some research on your own to find out what’s so drastically wrong with that
manuscript. If you aren’t able to figure it out, then I’ll tell you what’s so
wrong with it. Now let’s call it a day.” John left her wondering at his
statement and went home.
Martha was at the computer all night long researching about the First
World War, in a darkened, silent and lonely office. She groaned as she
discovered the howlers, the blunders that the debutante novelist had made. She
winced as she realized that John had been right and she had been wrong as she
had been as ignorant about History as that amateur novelist. She confessed to
herself that she had never been a History buff. But the thought that John had
so easily caught her on the wrong foot, just in the first month on her job, had
her cheeks burning in acute embarrassment. She owed him an apology. An
unconditional one at that! He was the one who ought to have protested at her
naivete and not the other way round!
When the staff trooped in the next day, they found Martha sleeping
soundly on the visitors’ sofa, curled up like a kitten. But they were
disciplined enough to not make brouhaha about it and just went to their places.
Only John D’ Costa remained near the sofa, debating about whether to wake her
up or not. He couldn’t allow her to be discovered by Norman like that. Norman
was due to arrive at 10 am from Scotland. It was 9 am then.
He slightly shook her shoulder and she bolted upright like a tightly
coiled spring that had been just released. When she realized where she was, she
felt very foolish. Having John watching her didn’t help at all. As she
self-consciously adjusted her frock that was riding high on one white thigh,
John burst out laughing helplessly and unwittingly she too joined in. The ice
had been broken.
She went into the washroom, brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth,
had a wash, combed her hair, powdered her face, applied a coat of lipstick and
was as good as new when she emerged in a whiff of fragrance. She had coffee
with the staff that was all praise for her all-night work and went back to her
desk. John was poring over a manuscript. He looked at her appreciatively,
sniffed the air and gently asked her to take a seat in front of him. “Did you
get your answer Mara?” “Yes, John, I owe you an apology. I am very sorry. I’ll
be careful next time,” she said sincerely. Then as a thought struck her, she
asked him in a puzzled tone, “Why do you call me Mara and not Martha, John? I
find it very funny. Any particular reason?”
“It just
slips off my tongue easily. You see, I had a fiancée named Sarah. Your name
rhymes with hers. Sarah, Mara. Hence I find it convenient to call you Mara.”
“Had a fiancée?” she enquired. “Yes, she’s unfortunately no more. She went on a
skiing expedition and never returned. It has been 7 years since and she has
been declared legally dead by the State, though God knows, I keep hoping and
expecting her to turn up any moment and surprise me by…….” He stopped talking,
choked by emotion.
Martha was surprised to see him so distraught.
She had thought that he was like a zombie, good-looking but bereft of any real
emotions. She wondered what his sentence would hear like when completed. “And
surprise me by…. flying into my arms.”
She colored instantly even as John watched her amazed. Did she think that he thought of her as his fiancée?
To be continued....
The copyright of this novel is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.
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