Page 56 of No Boss
The next afternoon, he asked for tea and biscuits.
The tray arrived in twelve minutes. The tea was perfect. Hot, strong, exact to his taste. The biscuits were Parle-G.
He looked at the tray. Then he looked at her. “Meera.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Parle-G.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“There are imported biscuits in the kitchen.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“You brought Parle-G.”
She blinked. Apologetic. “You asked for biscuits, Boss.”
His gaze stayed on her.
“I chose what is served most in the Haveli. Next time I can bring the catalogue.”
He looked at the Parle-G again, then back at her.
She looked polite, composed. At the corner of her mouth sat the ghost of a smile.
He ate the Parle-G.
By the third morning, he began choosing his words more carefully.
She followed those too.
She made faces when he was looking at his screen. Which meant he had begun looking at her more than his work.
That morning, he noticed the papers. He had asked her to print the emails he forwarded. By the previous afternoon there had been a small stack on the corner of his desk.
Now it stood four inches high.
He picked up the top sheet.
A reply. Under it the original mail. Under that the full thread.
He picked up the next. The same thread, printed again.
The next set carried a calendar invite. Acceptance. Confirmation. Reminder.
He went through several before setting them down.
“Meera.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“What is this?”
She looked up. “The printed emails, Boss.”
“There are calendar invites here.”
