Chapter 1

IT capital of the world – India?? No way, but it seems to be the place where you end up if you call the help line for computers, net work service providers and the like. I was in Mumbai for the company I was CEO UK because we’d been having a lot of troubles technically. We were well on the way to getting those sorted and I was along not just for the ride, but there were loads of issues and complaints from our customers about having to explain in straightforward English and being on the phone to some one who didn’t have our mother tongue as first language.

We were ensconced in the plush Hyatt Regency on the Sahar Airport Road, our local office wasn’t far and the three of us could walk or taxi, depending on the time of day, the oppressive heat, traffic, vehicular or foot and both are manic at all times. Ruth Madic and Ethen Graves were my colleagues, Ethen a mere slip of a boy at 24 and Ruth my age, 61. She was an old hand at the hard ship trouble spots like India, also Saudi Arabia, very hard compared to India and reflected in salaries. He is a superb IT technician, where as Ruth is a person technician being head of HR or personnel as it used to be termed.

For all her predilection for coverall clothing wherever she was and I’ve travelled to Florida, Helsinki and Lusaka for instancewith her, she never seemed to sweat. She is of medium build, 5’4”, size 12 clothing, pear shaped and tiny feet, Ruth excels in her work in any environment. Her dense wiry grey hair goes nicely with her pale complexion and is what I would call a bouffant style and closely fringes her face, again suggesting a closed hemmed in outlook and certainly appearance. Working she wears, almost frivolous for her, large framed bright red framed spectacles.

I’ve never shagged Ruth but would like to and I have guesses maybe she bats for the other side, as at formal big dressy functions at home when partners are usually invited, there is never a man at her side. She has outstanding taste on clothes, especially evening wear.

“So you’ve got some lined up me to interview Ruth?” I asked at breakfast. We were at the buffet and I was going for a full English as a change from scrambled eggs with onions, tomatoes, red chilli green chillies and topped with fresh coriander. And flat bread. Ruth glanced with horror at my plate as the chef thrust it at me, with beef bacon, with an ill disguised expression of disgust. She told me there were three applicants for secretary and one for reception. I was to see them all as the final arbiter and appointments were all sorted for the morning. We transferred to the office suite in Peddar Road.

I did a load of stuff and phone calls, sacked a bloke who had stolen petty cash, read emails, replied, checked our website and popped outside to the corridor where the applicants were demurely sitting for our meeting. Ruth had suggested her choice for each post, but knew I would decide, after all they wouldn’t be working directly with me in Europe and I was the boss.

I gestured to the first one, the receptionist, less important of the two vacancies but decided to get the easier interview out of the way. The slim, small girl rose and sheepishly rustled into the lounge area of my suite as I held the door open. Her vivid green, yellow and red sari made on hell of a noise suggesting it was brand new just for the interview. Her hair wasn’t full in body and was of course dense black, styled loosely but smart, falling across her shoulders. Her Sari was beautiful, draped over one shoulder and under it she wore a sort of under blouse with close fitting sleeves. Her skin was a gorgeous dusky mid brown tone, down past her small but obvious tits. She wore owl like metal glasses. Her name was Pooja Jain and she was 16. Damned attractive, just what we needed at the front desk.

“Miss Ruth seems to think you can do the job Pooja,” I suggested. “What is your motive?” She went on about family, needing the money, paying brother’s university fees, all the time twisting a row of beads hung round her swan like neck where they dangled down to her lap. Her fingers were nicely manicured, strong looking. I leafed through Ruth’s paperwork and notes, glancing at Pooja’s delicate animated features and the lovely expressions formed by her spectacular lips which curved like rose buds. I couldn’t see any caste marks anywhere on her charming young face. She had the right qualifications from school and college, but I have seen many certificates forged, especially in this part of the world. I read about her family. Mum and Dad, he was a guard on the suburban railway. Four brothers, six sisters and her grandparents who all lived together in the same slum of Dharavi. I told her I knew the area, having toured it as part of my acquaintance with the city. Fucking bleak existence if you ask me.

At one point in the several silences in the interview, she shifted and brought her slender lower limbs into view, shod in delicate gold trimmed flat sandals and I wondered if it was a play to tempt my judgement. It might have worked once upon a time, but she had the job and I was satisfied, telling her so and enjoying the look of sheer gratitude on her teenage face. Pooja left. I made some notes, again reverting to the computer - checking, reporting and answering business, then stepped out to the corridor again.

A much bulkier female rose and sashayed past me, giving me a waft of body and some obscure perfume, it was a horrible mixture. Her name was Arundhati Bhattacharya, age 54 and a deeply focussed mature, well educated woman. I read the copious notes Ruth had collated. Fascinating CV, oil companies, Tata steel subsidiaries, Microsoft (for six weeks), she’d done the big names and had great references. “So ... er Arundh...” “Please Mr Richard, call me Arun,” she interjected firmly, her voice low and modulated. Her sari was gold and silver coloured with wide stripe of silver grey through it. One shoulder was semi bare, and I could see sleeved blouse in dark grey. The material swathed her bosom, a not inconsiderable bosom, down to once again gold motif one inch heel sandals. A bright red Bindi spot between her strong untrimmed eyebrows stated her religion and caste.