India, 1970s
I switched the fans off and left my office, closing the door behind me. It was 7 PM, and the sun had set just a couple of minutes ago, putting an end to an exceptionally sweltering day -- sweltering even by the standards of a regular Indian summer. The heat was even more oppressive inside our makeshift offices, which were basically glorified tin sheds. They sat in the middle of a clearing, atop a small hill which overlooked the vast expanse of the new steelworks. I headed for the parking lot towards my scooter.
The lot, taking after the offices, was just a square of land fenced off with wooden posts and concertina wire. The wire fence, along with an aging watchman, made up the meagre security afforded to vehicles inside. The parking lot wasn't meant for regular workers, however. It was reserved for upper-management who chose to grace us with their presence once or twice a month. The parking space for people like me was down the hill, about a kilometre away. No watchmen, no fences.
It was only by sweet-talking and bribing the old
chowkidar
with
chai
and sweets, then, that I was allowed to bring my scooter here. It was my pride and joy, ordered from Italy with a down-payment which ate up most of half a year's worth of salary. It then took 9 more months for it to be shipped from Milan to my tiny village which stood in the middle of nowhere, in a predominantly-forested region of central India -- all the while bleeding further monthly payments out of my paycheck. My whole neighbourhood celebrated the day the gorgeous, alien-looking yellow machine was delivered to my house. It meant the world to me, a bachelor in his mid-20s.
I gently wheeled The Lamb -- my nickname for the Lambretta -- out of the lot, raising my hand in a
salaam
to the
chowkidaar
. Once outside, I put on my helmet and kick-started the two-stroke motor. I climbed on, and before riding away, allowed my gaze to rest on the vista below the hill. Acres upon acres of land stretched out to the horizon, lit up by the orange sodium-vapour lights of various facilities and workshops which stood inside this industrial complex. To one side, the towering smokestacks of the blast furnace belched black smoke in the night sky. On another, the facility which housed the coking ovens did the same, with its smaller chimneys. Enormous cranes and conveyor belt channels stood marked by their flashing red lights. Diesel locomotives, shunting steel plates from the rolling mill to the depot, ambled slowly on their tracks. The fact that less than two decades ago this area had been nothing more than paddy fields and grassland, seemed fantastical.
Of course, building an entire steelworks from scratch in a remote region of India had needed help. Expert help - from a nation whose industrial complex had been through two world wars, to one which had only gained independence from colonisation a short while after the second of these wars had ended. Russia had sent some of their best men down to India for the job. The engineers as well as executives worked tirelessly to not only build the giant complex, but to educate and train the future workforce, many of whom didn't even have a college degree. Learning on the job was how most of these men and women had gained their technical skills.
I, on the other hand, had been fortunate enough to have had a college education. About four years ago, I'd heard that the steelworks was hiring lower management staff. I'd applied and been hired as an operations supervisor in the rolling mill. Gaining transferable skills and managerial connections from that role, I'd received a promotion about a year-and-a-half ago, which led me to my current position as construction supervisor for the new coke oven battery. The job was tough, demanding long hours and a fair amount of mobility between sites. But I was eager to learn and didn't mind that I had to spend most of the day away from my tiny little house. The mess halls and cafes inside the complex provided cheap and decent meals, and my offices, temporary as they were, had air-conditioning.
Tonight, I had a dinner invitation from one of the upper-management staff, Mr. Khabarov. An ageing Russian, he had been among the first executives to fly down from Russia to supervise the planning and construction of the steelworks. Technically, his responsibilities were fulfilled the day the first-ever load of iron was melted in Blast Furnace 1, and he had a return flight ticket to Magnitka waiting at home. Yet, he had chosen to stay, and had even flown his family down soon afterwards. His daughter Olga had grown up here, completing her primary and secondary education in the schools which Mr. Khabarov himself had helped build. The family had adjusted to the rural Indian ways and pace of life. The old man could've retired a couple of years ago and enjoyed a hefty pension fund for the rest of his days, but he was still enthusiastic as ever about the steelworks and the city which had grown and flourished under his gaze.
I'd met Mr. Khabarov when he drove down to our shed half a year ago. I'd been awestruck at the sight of him getting down from his car, unchauffeured, wearing simple khakis. His tanned skin made him look no different from a fair-complexioned North Indian. He had smiled warmly at the
chowkidar
and greeted us all in Hindi. Hierarchically, he was three rungs up the organisational chain, yet none of us felt uncomfortable or held at gunpoint as we did while being around other people of his stature. He'd wanted to meet the on-site engineers and supervisors working on what he called his final pet project before he retired. We'd given him a tour of the site, me being appointed the guide as I could converse the best among the team in English. Satisfied with what he saw, he'd asked a couple of us to remain in touch with him over the duration of the project. Now, with the foundational work completed, he'd invited us over for some drinks and a get-together at a gentlemen's club.
I knew he liked game meat from the surrounding forest, so I'd asked a couple of villagers to go hunting and prepare a curry from the captured game. I got home, took a quick shower and changed into a khaki evening suit I'd borrowed from a colleague for the occasion. I collected the curry casserole from the villagers and headed to the club. Again, taking great care to park The Lamb in a discreet spot, I headed inside to find the invitees deep in various conversations around the bar. The lounge, booked out for the event, was lit dimly in ambient lighting. Dated Bollywood music played softly in the background. I caught Mr. Khabarov's eye and was greeted with a warm handshake.
"
Kaise ho?
You've been working late hours today, I believe." He boomed.
"
Bahut acchha, janaab
. Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope this can make up for it." I fished the casserole out of the plastic bag I'd been carrying it in and presented the contents to him. His face lit up.
"Wild Bison? It must be my lucky day."
He clapped me on the back and asked me to deliver it to the kitchen, from where they would serve it to the guests.
"And before you go..." He thrust a drink in my hand. "You'll like this. It's mulled wine. I and my family made this at home by ourselves."
I thanked him and headed out of the lounge, for the kitchens. I passed the adjacent indoor tennis courts on the way. Under the floodlights, a woman was practicing her serves. I glanced at her and walked on. In the kitchen, I handed the head chef the casserole, with express instructions to serve the only meatiest bits to Mr. Khabarov. On my way back, I glanced at the lone tennis player again. A flicker of recognition made me pause.
Is that... Olga Khabarova?
I peered at the figure, who was dressed in a navy blue tee-shirt and a pleated white skirt. As she turned and walked to the side of the court after a serve, I got a clear look at her face. It
was
Olga. Last I heard, she was attending university in the USSR. Saint Petersburg. I didn't know she was back in town. It's not like we were personally acquainted, either. The only time I'd ever see her was at the year-end employee dinners she used to accompany her father to. She had still been in high school then. But she was definitely grown up now.
Her tall, lithe body cut a striking figure on the otherwise empty court. Her shirt hugged her torso tightly. The muscles in her back undulated as she raised the racquet and brought it smashing down on the ball. Her skirt ended just above her knee, but the hem rode a few inches up her shapely thighs every time she served. She concentrated on the ball as it flew up, timing her response and grunting as her racquet hit the ball with a gunshot-like explosion - and sent it off to the other end of the court. I was getting hot under the collar. Sipping my drink, I watched her intently for the next five minutes while kneeling against a column. With a powerful grunt, she served her last ball of the evening. Walking to one of the benches, she wiped the sweat off her face with a towel. Then she picked up her hefty sports bag and started walking towards the changing rooms. I took that as a cue to head back to the lounge.
Back inside, I saw the wait staff setting up the buffet table. Dinner would be served soon. I went around the lounge, greeting colleagues and engaging in polite chit-chat here and there. I was distracted, though. The vision of Olga kept replaying in my mind. I saw her father on one corner of the room, being accosted by a gaggle of young upstarts eager to gain favour with him. I felt like I should join them. I started walking towards the group, but my steps were halted -- again -- at the sight of Olga, who had just walked into the room. She looked around, quickly taking in the people who didn't seem to have noticed her entry. Then she walked to the bar and ordered a drink. Sitting down on one of the barstools, she swivelled to face the lounge and crossed her legs.
She was still wearing her tennis clothes from earlier. Her white canvas-shoed feet bounced lightly to the music, which had now been switched to something more contemporary. Tambourine and
dhol
beats floated across the room. The hippie boom of the 1960s had leaked into Bollywood music productions. The staples of Indian classical music -- the
Sitar
and
tabla
were being employed in popular songs in a way that classical composers could never have dreamed of -- nor approved. The music itself seemed to come from, and bring with it, a thick haze of incense. Olga closed her eyes and leaned back, perching her elbows on the bar counter behind her.
My vision tunnelled until I saw nothing except her, spot-lit by a single overhead lamp which cast shadows on her face and body. She seemed half-concealed behind a black veil, which contrasted her features in a way to accentuate some and only hint at others. Her skin was covered in a slight sheen of sweat everywhere but her face. Her whole being appeared mysterious... and inviting.
I gulped the remaining wine and walked up to her, propelled by a curious force. On any other day, I would've been content to just look at her face and admire her beauty from afar. But this night was different. I believe the wine was having its effect.
"Hello Olga. I didn't know you were back in town." I ventured.
She opened her eyes and smiled at me, in the vacillating manner when one doesn't know whom they're speaking to but need to be polite.
"We haven't met before. I... remember you from when you were little, attending the year-end dinners with your father." I tried to ease her uncertainty. "I'm sorry, I should introduce myself."
