The country had descended into chaos, but his lover was safe, at last. He wanted to grab her in his arms and never let go. But a minor technicality about their affair being a secret held him back. What if people came to know about their illicit relationship, he thought. Illicit. How he hated that word. Such practical matters took over his passion as he sat back in the jeep, wallowing in guilt.

Chapter 6

“THE SUREST WAY TO A MAN’S HEART”

Meera stared at the sentence before her, written in bold letters on the piece of paper she had received in the waiting room of a recording studio. There were about six other women there; most of them around her age, one seemed older. What kind of voice did the advertising company want? Uncertainty filled her heart, and she began to regret her decision to answer the call for voice-over artists that she’d seen in the newspaper. But Abhimanyu had convinced her to try new avenues to showcase her voice, so she was going to give this her best shot.

‘You’ll be up in fifteen-twenty minutes,’ a Parsi secretary informed her curtly and returned to the audition room. One of the candidates sitting next to Meera began practicing: ‘The suuurest way to a man’s heart.’

Another girl followed with a rather husky rendition of the line: ‘The shhurrest whaay to a man’s hhheart.’ She was trying to sound sexy, but what if they were selling a biscuit, Meera wondered. She suppressed a giggle and looked around the room. A third girl was testing her vocals – high-pitched aaahs quickly followed by low-pitched ooohs. Meera realized that it was going to be way more competitive than she had imagined. She sat there amid the cacophony of women rehearsing, thinking about how she would bring up her audition with Abhimanyu when she met him next. Until it was her turn.

The audition room was dark, with glowing multicolour knobs and metallic switches on high-end recording equipment.

‘Meera, please get inside the booth,’ a voice said.

She couldn’t make out who it was. Heck, she couldn’t make out how many people were in the room. She made her way into an even darker recording booth and found herself facing a giant microphone. The booth was sound proof and she could hear herself gulp in the dead silence. A few moments passed before she heard a knock on a small glass panel right in front of the microphone. A shaggy-haired man in a kurta was gesturing with his hands, touching his ears constantly. His lips were moving too, but she couldn’t hear a thing. After a few attempts, the man gave up and came around to the door of her booth.

‘Put the headphone on, will you?’

‘Oh, sorry. Sure,’ she said, and placed a heavily-padded pair of headphones over her ears.

‘State your name, please,’ the male voice in the headphone instructed.

‘Meera Apte.’

‘Alright, let’s take it from the top.’

‘Excuse me?’