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“Okay, but counterpoint … he’s hot,” said Tanya as she helped herself to a bite of my vegetable uttapam.
The lunchtime buzz at Santosh Sagar was in full swing – steel plates clinking, waiters yelling out orders and the comforting sizzle of dosas crisping up on hot pans. The air was thick with the scent of coconut chutney, strong filter coffee and just the slightest hint of burnt butter.
“How does that even matter?” I scoffed.
Ten minutes before lunch time, I had shown up at Tanya’s desk and muttered our code: 404. Her eyes had lit up in anticipation of fresh gossip and, without a single question, she had immediately slammed her laptop shut. We only went out for lunch once or twice a month, exclusively on days when we hadn’t brought our dabbas from home. But today was an exception. The office pantry was far too small to handle the full extent of our commentary on the new intern. So we walked out of the office and made our way to the local south Indian joint, abandoning our tiffins on our desks.
“Of course, it does. Do you know how many terrible interns we’ve had? At least this one is easy on the eyes. It’s a service to the workplace,” she said, leaning on her elbows placed firmly on the sticky plastic table.
“He’s not an art installation,” I said, dunking a piece of uttapam into the sambar.
“No, but if he were, he’d be bloody expensive,” she said, leaning further in.
“He does look expensive, I’ll give you that,” I said, remembering the Air Jordans he’d been wearing. Definitely limited edition.
“Why do you think he’s here?” she asked, waving at the waiter to ask for some more sambar. In classic Mumbai fashion, he completely ignored her and moved on to the next table. As consolation, I slid my half-empty bowl in front of her.
“No clue. He clearly doesn’t know a thing about graphic designing. I spent all morning teaching him how to resize images on Photoshop,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Okay, maybe I was exaggerating. To his credit, he had caught on fairly quickly. But instead of finishing the simple task I’d given him – resizing all the website assets for our new launch – and freeing himself up to take on more work, he had spent a lot of that time mindlessly scrolling through YouTube. Which made one thing very clear to me: He was here to do the bare minimum. And that told me everything I needed to know about him.
“And, he’s not on Instagram. Or LinkedIn,” she said, picking up her phone to try looking him up again. But there was no point. He was some kind of social media ghost. Part of me was impressed by his ability to stay off the grid but, mostly, I was just annoyed that I couldn’t dig up anything on him.
“Varun said he was from the CEO’s ‘personal network’. So he’s probably just a nepotism hire,” I muttered.
“He’s not related to him, right? Oh my God, what if he’s Rajat’s son, in undercover mode?”
I dismissed the ridiculous notion with a casual flick of my hand. We both knew that our founder, Rajat Arora, had only one child – a toddler. He had even brought her to the office a few months ago.
“Either way, you have to admit that he’s fun to look at,” Tanya said, smirking.
I refused to dignify that with a response. But I also didn’t deny it.
As we dragged our feet back to the office, I tried coming up with a plan to make the most out of this situation. So what if he was a nepo hire with a reserved parking spot? He needed to pull his own weight if he wanted to work with me. I was not going to let this rich pretty boy cruise through this internship like he probably had with everything else in his life.
So when I sat down next to him after lunch, I had my game face on. “Hey, are you done with those images?” I asked, keeping my tone casual but firm.
He took his right elbow behind his neck and stretched his triceps, as if he were getting ready for a workout, before turning to look at me. “Almost,” he said, his voice lazy, like the task was more of an option than a priority. “Isn’t there an AI tool that resizes all these images, like in one go?”
“Yes,” I said, unimpressed. “You are the tool.”
Neil grinned, leaning back in his chair like I’d just paid him a compliment. His nonchalance was beginning to piss me off.
“Listen, Neil. I don’t know why you’ve signed up for this internship, but please take me seriously when I say this: If you’re here to just get by and collect a fancy brand name for your resume, I can ask Varun to move you to another team, where there isn’t already a shortage of team members,” I said, pausing to take a breath. “But if you want to work with me, you’re going to have to contribute. Properly.”
He straightened in his chair slowly as I spoke. He met my eyes and nodded, but there was a flicker of amusement there that made me question whether he was taking me seriously. “Got it, boss,” he said with a straight face, and I had to bite back the impulse to challenge him further.
I straightened my back and took on an imposing stance. “I need those images back in an hour,” I said after a moment.
“Sure. Is it cool if I start on it after the meeting?” he asked sincerely.
I frowned, mentally checking my calendar. “What meeting?”
He motioned to the conference room, where the founder, Rajat Arora, was sitting with his assistant. “Rajat has been waiting to meet us both,” he said.
I sprang up from my seat, a wave of panic rising in my throat. “What? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
He shrugged and I had to resist the urge to throw something at him. Rajat Arora came to the office every alternate day, but our paths rarely ever crossed. In fact, the only one-on-one I’d had with him was during my final round of interviews at Jharokha three and a half years ago. He always personally interviewed every single person he hired, to check if they were a good “personality fit” for the brand – basically, whether they came from the right circles or not.
I collected my notebook and pen from my desk, and darted for the conference room, not bothering to check if Neil was following me. I had to knock twice before I caught Rajat’s attention. He motioned for me to enter.
“Hi Rajat, so sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, stepping inside, Neil hot on my tail.
He smiled at us, handing a file to his assistant, Gayatri, who took it without so much as a glance in our direction. “Come, come, sit,” he said in the friendliest tone I’d ever heard him use.
Rajat was in his late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair that was starting to thin at the crown. His smile was warm but didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something about him that made me feel like he was always assessing, always evaluating – even in casual conversations. And he was certainly not the kind of man who was used to waiting for people.
“Long lunch, huh?” he asked coolly.
Embarrassed, I looked away and mumbled an apology. He waved a hand at me, like it was not a big deal. “Welcome, Neil. How’s the first day going?” He turned to face my intern.
Neil slid into the seat next to me. “Fantastic, uncle. I’m already learning so much,” he chirped.
I shot him a sideways glance. Uncle? And where had this newfound enthusiasm come from?
“I’m sure there’s a lot we can learn from you as well,” Rajat said, then looked at me. “He’s a good one, Kavya. He’ll be a huge asset for us.”
Was the founder of my company buttering up an intern?
Excerpted with permission from Not Safe For Work, Radhika Agrawal, HarperCollins India.
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