The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

  That improved the minds of the old readers, perhaps, but didn’t capture any new ones. Munshi kept discovering, and at a cost, that 800 words of the most thought-provoking newspaper story were equal to roughly a thirty-second ‘wrap’ on television.

  He wanted political reportage, the kind that exposed the ambition and subterfuge of politicians and bureaucracy, the difference between real popularity and voters’ lack of choice, the difference between tyranny and parliamentary majority; stories that got under the skin of election promises and government policy. Munshi believed voters would love such news because it empowered them. He was wrong; empowerment now meant being able to recharge the cell phone to watch the live feeds from news channels. The outcome changed the nature of news itself. There was no longer any sanctity of sources, any exclusivity of stories. It was a dull and bleak world of constant updates, which every journalist received at about the exact same time. There was no such thing as selective debriefing anymore, there was only conditional debriefing. And the condition was that the news should be aired at prime time and with a certain spin. Newspapers did not figure in this game; they reached people twelve hours too late.

  Munshi went through this churning about four years ago and emerged distraught. He even toyed with the idea of going online, like many immortal brands worldwide that continued life after their death in print. He considered various proposals: ‘the first online political news portal’, ‘the best online political analysis’ and ‘the only online political newspaper’. It all came down to one thing—an online confession of his failure.

  Determined not to buy that last lock for the gates or sign off that final edition of the newspaper, Munshi started to think in earnest. As with anyone at the end of the road, where advice no longer worked, he began listening to his inner voice that spoke to him in an obsolete vocabulary due to disuse and gave him ideas that were extravagant, adventurous and also terminal. There were limited funds left with him and, therefore, limited time to explore all the ideas of his inner voice. But as he had to try at least one of them, he chose the cheapest and least terminal of them all.

  Munshi wrote about this idea in one of his page one ‘messages from the chairman/editor-in-chief’, which were generally famous for kicking in the teeth of deviant newsmakers. This message, however, was a little different. He reflected about the troubles newspapers faced, explained the consequences of decreasing circulation and falling sales. He wrote about his own newspaper and its great history, and referred to daily newspapers as the conscience keepers in a democracy. All this was on the brink of oblivion, he concluded gloomily, but added that life appeared different from the edge.

  Munshi claimed that this near-death experience had given him an almost spiritual insight into the truth about political and government reportage. Faced with day-long breaking news, journalists now had to look for other, more unusual sources of information. As the facts were all on air on news channels, newspaper journalists could do the only thing left to do; improvise. This had often led to reading of body language of politicians or putting disparate facts together for a new, although, usually far-fetched result. Journalists in search of an exclusive story now had to cross over into the realm of intuition and special powers of the mind. Things not associated with journalism were becoming common, like knowing the future of a bill even before it was made into a law, or knowing what decisions were being made in closed-door meetings or knowing whose idea it was to arrest the protestors, even though the police said it was the home minister. Different from speculation, this ‘knowing’ was not factual, it bordered on belief and superstition. And like most belief and superstition, it rapidly took the place of fact.

  Munshi suggested a simple solution to end this dilemma. He would set up a department of ‘knowers’ in his newspaper, which would introduce a new kind of journalism in the country—the reportage of knowing. Not to guess, or speculate, but to know in an authentic, professionally intuitive manner. It was beyond the five essentials of news coverage, and an all-new way of answering the ‘why’ of every event. He invited men and women from across the country to apply to the newspaper for the new position of a know-journalist. Language would not be a hurdle, qualifications did not matter and age was immaterial. All they required were powers of the mind they were either born with or developed mysteriously, which could range from predicting future to guessing cards. Applicants would be required to do political reportage by knowing events and decisions before they happened. He wrote:

  ‘This could have been an obituary to my newspaper. Instead, it is an invitation. I know this will anger many journalists who may find their careers in jeopardy. I apologize for the inconvenience of an unemployed future this may cause them. But I know they will forgive me because there is no scope for compromise in journalism. In the past, it was the truth we wanted, and we found it every time. We now want faith, and I am sure we will find this too.’

  Munshi had always been hated for his words, but his ideas were another matter; he was loved for them. This seemed to be an exception. The subject of knowing was criticized endlessly on television and written about in other newspapers. And as with any free show that promised a possible suicide, the spotlight stayed on Munshi.

  He was briefly worried about the general destruction of his relationships that had followed the decision. But he was not the kind to undertake reconstructions of any type without reason, and he wanted to prove that point. As promised, Munshi’s advertisement appeared in all newspapers, and it requested applications for the post of a know-journalist. Munshi received only twenty-two applications from all over the country, but the collection was eclectic. From magicians to mind readers, astrologers to arsonists, each candidate had a fascinating power over nature or other human beings. It was difficult to interview them, as they seemed to know the questions the moment they were formed in the interviewer’s mind. The suspicion that they knew the answers as well defeated the purpose of the interviews. The selection process now became a test for Munshi and his team instead. Finally, deputy editor, Bhaskar Joshi, developed a template that was based strictly on what was required for reporting about politics and government. After several days of screening, Mira Mouli was chosen for her powers of knowing thoughts just by listening to people talk. That was four years ago.

  Then, the previous week, the newspaper had hired a new ‘knower’ to the department, Salat Vasudev, for his extraordinary powers of discovering patterns and anomalies in complex processes. He belonged to a wealthy and famous business family, a fact Munshi had factored in while recruiting him. That could help in the publicity for his stories and, therefore, the newspaper. Munshi had been right; Salat’s debut story last Sunday still made waves, and it was already Thursday. It was an investigation based on a few hundred documents that proved how illegitimate funds were being legalized by ministers for a price with the help of top bureaucrats. Salat had ‘known’ the irregularity by a mere glance at the records. It had taken the entire editorial team of the newspaper three days to cross check and confirm what he had known in approximately eleven minutes. The response from the government had been decisive, mainly because every word of what Salat wrote had been true. Two top ministers were set to resign, and the officials who colluded with them were suspended from work.

  The newspaper now had to make space for Salat, and it encroached on Mira’s space. Munshi believed in setting the trend, and he knew that even though Mira had brought credibility to the concept of know-reportage, people were now used to her unusual powers. Her brilliance was becoming commonplace; Salat was the new attraction. Munshi, however, liked Mira for a reason beyond general comprehension; she had proved him right when he had needed it the most. Her sensational gift of knowing had conclusively put all doubts to rest. After the success of Munshi’s experiment, other newspapers had employed know-journalists of their own. Know-reportage was the new way of journalism and know-reporters were seen as saviours of the printed news. Even Munshi’s friends had returned to him when it became clear he w
ould survive, and his relationships were restored. More importantly, so were the advertisements to his newspaper.

  The rain had scattered the traffic off the roads, and Mira reached her newspaper office early, much ahead of an interview scheduled at 4 p.m. The lunch hour had segregated the staff into three categories: those who cooked at home, those who did not, and those who didn’t care who cooked where. She knew who among the staff belonged to which category not because she lived alone and considered an apple lunch, but because she had no choice. It was more than a habit or a compulsion; it was her nature, the way people made friends or remembered numbers. Her powers worked in a stunningly simple way; it just required she heard people speak, once. It didn’t even matter if they didn’t speak to her; her mind completed their profile by observing their behaviour, choices or surroundings. For example, the yellow hairband of the chatty receptionist was the brightest thing she had worn in months. She no longer wore her wedding ring, and Mira knew she didn’t miss it. Or the clerk who greeted her as he walked by in the corridor; his interest in religion had begun soon after he was overlooked for a recent promotion. People’s thoughts seeped through her mind to mix with her observations and rapidly filled up the missing parts of the puzzle. It was as if she moved through a frozen, invisible grid, and if she allowed it to flow, she would know exactly how the day had been for the entire newsroom. But the unwanted detail was a burden, thoughts the weight of water that threatened to drown her if she didn’t know how to float. So she learnt to disengage, close her mind to remain unscathed in her office and in her life in general. She survived because of a few uninhabited islands, pockets of relative thoughtlessness that allowed her to come up for air briefly. Her cabin was the usual sanctuary in office, which she entered now, shut the door and took a deep breath of the silence.

  Switching on the computer, Mira reached for the apple in her bag. A memory tugged at her heart of another birthday, when she had discovered that it wasn’t actually the date she was born. Her fingers froze on the keyboard as her mind returned to that day nineteen years ago in Rishikesh. Professor Raghunath Mouli, who she had thought was her uncle, was merely a stranger who had taken pity on an orphan and paid for her education. She was no one’s child and no one wanted her, she had realized on that day.

  It was always difficult to douse that memory, as if she had only put out a fire that continued to smoulder under the ashes. Mira forced herself to focus on the waiting messages. The technical team usually disabled readers’ comments on her know-reports to protect the newspaper website from crashing with overload. So the readers emailed her instead, and choked the inbox. The messages that day were mainly about the story she had written a few days ago on reallocation of central ministries in the People’s Party government. The ruling party was keen to revamp the government ahead of the January national elections, sack the corrupt faces and accommodate electorally useful ones. It had led to the usual game in journalistic circles to predict who would be promoted, demoted, included and dropped from the cabinet, even though everyone knew the list would be finalized only hours before the actual announcement. Promotions had to be closely guarded against sabotage at the last moment; the name of a member of Parliament (MP) could be struck off the list because of controversies, new scandals and new revelations about old scandals. It was, however, easier to track demotions and ousters as such leaders were identified when they vengefully exposed others. The only safety for politicians was in secrecy, and even those who knew they were on the list made every effort to mislead journalists. So, after a week of this game, the media had notionally promoted and demoted every minister, and even sacked a few from the cabinet.

  Mira did none of that. She just gave a brief list of politicians who would be promoted, a longer list of the demoted and a very short list of the newly inducted. The cabinet reshuffle was announced that morning, and her list was accurate to the last name. Most emails that afternoon were compliments; readers believed her gift to be a miracle, some even called it a blessing of the gods! Her dark eyes reflected the screen light indifferently as she repeated her polite answer to the mails and thanked the readers. She thought it as no achievement that she had often been right about the decisions of Mahesh Bansi, the president of the People’s Party (PP). Four years ago, soon after her recruitment, she was assigned the two main political parties to research and report. She had also been equally accurate about the decisions of Omkar Nuri, the head of the main Opposition National Party (NP).

  The reshuffle, she had predicted, would prove that Mahesh Bansi’s influence in the party was on the decline, as it would not include his recommendations. The ruling party president’s input was important ahead of elections, although as per rule, the PP office-bearers—including the president—didn’t contest elections themselves. After a corrupt tenure in office, both the party and the government sought to go to polls with a clean image. Mahesh would consider the reshuffle as the last straw, she explained in her article:

  ‘Mahesh Bansi has thrived in the party organization because he is good with politics, not popularity. He has surrounded himself with people who need him for their political careers. By denying his list of candidates, the government will weaken him and reduce his clout. He will know his opinion won’t matter in decision-making during the election process in coming months, especially about who will contest and who won’t, a matter that will be of great interest to his followers.

  The government’s message to the Bansi loyalists will be to rethink their allegiance to him. With restless rivals in the party like Nalan Malik already poaching on his supporters, Mahesh Bansi will see the reshuffle as the final word against his continuation as party president.’

  It ruffled feathers, where feathers were left in Delhi. The rest brooded over what could be done about know-reportage of this sort and the menace it posed to political strategy. Every know-report came with a disclaimer that the story was not based on facts but on the special powers of the know-journalist. Earlier, Mahesh Bansi used to call Mira himself to protest about her stories. Those used to be brief conversations that ended with her directing him on how to complain to Munshi instead. But when Mahesh did that, he discovered how Munshi actually enjoyed the complaints and derived pleasure from the finer details of damage the story had done. After several instances of this, Mahesh lost the art of appreciating Munshi’s chuckle and stopped calling. Mira often wondered if the politicians who criticized her know-reports realized that the intensity of their protests established the accuracy of her story. Some did, and found consolation in the fact that she was equally accurate and sufficiently brutal about their rivals as well.

  The website did not provide the newspaper online but gave a brief description of various departments and their profiles. The most-read section was Mira’s background and, as she knew from experience the kind of truth people often preferred, she told them exactly what they expected:

  ‘At the heart of my story, like most mysteries, is destiny. I was born with a unique gift of the mind; the power to think like other people. Given the numerous options and combinations available to us in every moment, it is impossible to know what choices we might make and why we make them. That is how we construct chance and I deconstruct it for you.

  I was still a child when it began; at least, they said I was still a child. I could accurately know the choices people had made and might make in the future; know their thoughts, their fears, lies, plans and hopes. Naturally, this made my childhood a busy place. I spent numerous afternoons on school holidays and weekends with family and friends, answering questions important to them. Will the heir take over the business or become the musician he wants to be? Will the daughter leave the city for her career or get married and settle down? Will the troubled couple still be together after three years? I have grown up since those fun-and food-filled afternoons, but going by the emails I receive, the questions seem to have remained the same. As with most things intuitive, I am never really sure exactly what leads to the predictions, and I have never b
een able to trace my forecasts back to a trigger. Here at the newspaper, I get to write what’s behind the decisions and actions of people in politics. In other words, I take the story forward, especially when there are no more facts to be had.’

  Since her appointment at the newspaper, Munshi had asked her help several times to assist his friends by studying a situation or an adversary. As a result, she had many acquaintances but no friends. People admired her; she was intelligent, good looking, courteous and engaging. But they were perplexed by her reluctance for relationships especially when, they reasoned, she could read their thoughts. They never understood that it was precisely because she read their thoughts that she didn’t want relationships. Her gift protected her from getting hurt emotionally, warned her of intentions and exposed hidden motives. She didn’t need people, she wasn’t used to them in her submerged world of constant loneliness. But her gift also hurt her sometimes, and when that happened, she wished there was someone who saved her from herself.

  Nineteen years ago, she was hurt by her powers of knowing for the first time. The cold river breeze that distant morning on banks of the Ganga touched her face once more now, and made her let go of the waiting fragment of memory. It was her tenth birthday, the last time Raghunath Mouli had visited the hostel at the orphanage. She had then with her a picture of her parents, Sima and Shivnath Mouli. Giving her the photograph a few years ago, Rahgunath had mentioned that his brother and sister-in-law had died following a road accident and left her in his care. She had kept the picture close and tried to rebuild the imaginary life of her parents, working the dream all the way back to their beautiful marriage and a happy home. There had always been something missing about that dream, and Mira had always been worried she would discover what it was. Then on that day, almost instinctively, she had asked Raghunath the date when the photograph was taken. It was a simple question but she knew he had no answer; at least, no answer that was the truth.