‘Hi, I am Meenakshi Iyer, from Chennai.’
Right then, the HR lady came bustling in and handed a form to her, asking her to fill it out. The forms, clearly set by a nutter, read:
Name:
Full Name:
Name as it appears in the passport:
Name to appear as byline:
As Meenakshi got cracking through the questions, her deep brown eyes sized up those around her. First, there was Kolamudi. Then there was a group of three – two boys and a girl – huddled around each other. The boys dressed in Coldplay t-shirts and frayed denims looked badly in need of a bath, shave and plate of food each. The girl, dressed in purple with matching eye liner, was eagerly nodding to what the other two were saying but she needn’t have bothered. The boys appeared too glassy-eyed to notice.
Meenakshi heard the term CPS tossed around liberally. CPS, short for The Centre for Political Science, was regarded the training ground for journalists, civil service aspirants and other babudom mongers. The Delhi-based university was equally famous for churning out pseudo intellectuals who debated on national television issues ranging from Germany’s economic policies to why German Shepherds should do it with the country’s mongrels.
Thankfully, more trainees had arrived and Meenakshi’s attention was diverted. An elfin-looking boy surveyed the room nervously till his eyes met hers. She smiled back and taking that as cue, he strode to the empty chair behind her, shoving his laptop and earphones into his bag.
Leaning his head dangerously close to Meenakshi’s neck, he said, ‘Rishi Shendurikar.’
‘Hi, Meenakshi Iyer,’ she replied turning her head, goosebumps rising on her neck.
‘Minaakshi … nice name … south Indian ho kya?’ he asked.
And just like that the goosebumps sunk back into her flesh. She waited. She knew it was coming. It always did.
‘You don’t look like one, you know?’ he added.
‘Sorry, but how are south Indians supposed to look like?’ enquired Meenakshi steadily.
‘Black na, just like Rajinikanth,’ tittered Rishi crudely.
‘Oh, not white like Hema Malini?’ asked Meenakshi in mock surprise.
‘Uh? Haan, yaar. Bhool hi gaya. Dream girl toh madrasi hain!’ he replied, genuinely surprised.
‘Then you must have also forgotten that Rajinikanth is a Maharashtrian,’ snapped Meenakshi returning to her forms.
Rishi stared, closing his mouth a second later.
By now, everyone had tuned into Rishi and Meenakshi’s squabble and not noticed a tall, lean man stride in and settle into one of the chairs. He held a Sports Illustrated and a couple of newspapers in his left hand.
The HR lady, who had made herself scarce, suddenly reappeared with a button undone and a cleavage duly prepped.
‘Arjuuuuunnnnnn,’ she crooned lustily. The man got up. Meenakshi saw the faintest look of annoyance flit across his face.
‘Hi,’ he replied lightly.
‘Arreee babu, not seen you for a couple of days. What happened? Went holidaying with your shona ki?’ she enquired, squeezing his forearm.
Arjun Rathore, one of The Daily Times’s star reporters broke into a slow smile, leaning against the wall to face the trainees for the first time.
‘This year’s batch,’ she remarked, pointing at the bunch. And just like that the upstart group of trainees felt self-conscious. They promptly went back to filling their forms when the incorrigible Chanda bore her head forward like a great green insect and demanded,
‘You are the cricket guy, right?’
Rathore winked back and without another word, exited the HR cubicle.
‘Follow him,’ hissed the HR lady, reserving an extra scowl for Chanda.
Rathore took them to Shahroukh Mistry’s cabin through a long, circuitous route for the benefit of a tour around the office. There were numerous stands stocked with papers from around the world, catalogued and filed for editors and conscientious trainees. The office didn’t look as empty now. It was nearing ten and a couple of reporters had trooped in.
While Rathore pointed out more stuff, Meenakshi found herself staring at his lithe arms, where veins ran freely under his tanned skin. When he caught her staring, Meenakshi looked away. Hot and flustered.
After the tour, Rathore ushered the trainees into a modestly sized cabin. The walls were bare, except for a crayon by a kid. A pair of chrome stereos dhamkaaoed from above.
‘Shahroukh is in a meeting,’ Rathore said in a low, deep voice that forced the chatty girls into silence. A few flashed him dreamy smiles. With a lean, athletic frame and a voice that sounded like melted chocolate, the sports desk head was altogether yummy.
‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ he added, and left. The trainees looked around awkwardly trying to unravel Mistry from his surroundings.
Shahroukh Mistry, the associate editor, was easily the most hated, equally prized man at The Daily Times. The editor-in-chief handpicked by the owners of the paper, was a slight, nervous looking man who didn’t have the gall to question the owners’ sometimes unethical way of news selection and compilation. Mistry brought much sense to the paper and its owners and took it upon himself to admit more tenacious talent to this family-run newspaper.
‘So how are we all today?’ he asked walking in with a copy of the day’s paper. The trainees smiled back nervously. A few mumbled, ‘Fine.’ In his late forties with an air of laidback sophistication about him, Mistry was one of those men who was able to gain an audience around him effortlessly.
‘So seven of you, is it?’ he asked, leaning back on his chair, his head resting on his knotted fingers.
‘Actually, we are eight, sir,’ offered Meenakshi, who, like her professor dad, was wired to correct anomalies. ‘One boy has gone to the washroom.’
Mistry trained his eyes on Meenakshi. Gone was the easy grin.
‘No sirs, please. Not here.’ Mistry remarked, dropping his gaze.
The trainee who had disappeared trooped in uttering a barely audible sorry.
‘Wet your pants already?’ barked Mistry.
The young man now looked ready to wet his pants.
‘You guys have got to relax,’ continued Mistry, deeply enjoying his own joke. ‘This is a newsroom, not a nuclear lab! Have a smoke. Move around. Get out a sexy story,’ he said, counting his three rules on his fingers. ‘It’s that simple!’
Seeing that his chalk talk wasn’t being received well, Mistry returned to the forms that the HR had sent him early that morning.
‘During your stint here, I am going to look after your concerns work wise,’ said Mistry, continuing to go through the forms in front of him. ‘If you have any other issues, go to the HR.’
‘So who wants to do what?’ he demanded, ignoring the hands that had gone up. Experience had taught him that he wouldn’t get a word in for the next five minutes.
‘Mr Mistry, I would like to report on politics,’ said one of the boys wearing coldplay t-shirts. ‘Could I tail one of the right wing parties, sir,’ he asked eagerly. ‘Saffron terror is not reported like it should be. Just because there have been only sporadic incidents, it doesn’t mean one has to be less worried about it,’ he concluded, roused by his own speech.
Mistry looked up and stared hard at the boy.
‘You can always write my boy,’ he said, adding ‘But it is better to slug it out at the desks. You need to know what kind of copies make it to the paper. Get a hang of the paper’s news sense and then start writing for it.’
‘But sir, I want to do hardcore reporting day in and night out,’ he insisted.
‘Night and day, huh?’
‘Yes, sir’ replied the boy growing in confidence, certain now that his straightforward bargaining wasn’t such a bad idea.
‘As of tomorrow, you will do page 3. Report to Ms Pinky Sabharwal. She heads the desk. Is there anybody else who wants to discuss how their careers should take off?’ he asked in a calm voice, looking around the room.
&nbs
p; The rest of the trainees began to rethink their speeches. ‘Fatafat.’
Mistry went about assigning them their desks.
‘… Chanda Kolamudi – City
‘Rishi Shendurikar – Sports
‘and Minaakshi Iyer – Business.’
Meenakshi’s face fell. She felt like a stripper being sent to a five-year-old’s birthday party.
3
Between 9.15 a.m. and 3.30 p.m., Meenakshi had her head out, neck stretched and spine ram rod straight like a Kalahari meerkat. Scanning agency wires and market indices incessantly forced one into that position. Colleagues who walked past her couldn’t help but smile for she did look like a child woman with her dilated eyes and upturned nose. Meenakshi hadn’t signed up for this profile when she had joined the desk. However, being the newest and youngest addition to the desk meant carrying out whatever tasks were assigned to her. This included watering the bonsai that sat glumly by the window, scouting for pictures to go with write-ups and preparing the all important LIST.
The list was a compilation of stories being filed for the day. The list never became one until it was green signalled by the desk head. But before his approval, it had to be compiled from several mails sent by the reporters to a common id. It was Meenakshi’s job to collate the list from the inbox and have it ready before the desk head came in. This required her to come in earlier than most. Once the list was okayed and shared with the rest of the bureaus, Meenu returned to tracking the wires and indices. Misses were not appreciated, she was told on her first day. In short, she remained in a hightened state of anxiety for a good part of the day. It was only after 3.30 p.m. (when the market bell had gone) that she finally let her shoulders slump, eyeing the bonsai that she should have watered in the morning.
‘Chalo, chai ke liye jaate hain’, said Chanda brightly, bursting into Meenakshi’s thoughts.
‘Let me water the plant first,’ she replied. At least she made a difference to the bonsai, she thought glumly.
Chanda gave her a simpering look and waited. The city desk that she was a part of had lots and lots of work for everyone and no one, simply no one could remain chipkaaoed to the desk. Reporters kept rushing out and dashing in to file copies. Deskies often took calls. Fires broke out. Slums gutted. People died. Buildings collapsed. Day in and day out. Of course it did hurt that she had to fetch a cup of Swirly Noodles with or without MSG for her desk head at 4.30 p.m. sharp. Otherwise, she managed to do a story a week.
Meenakshi pretended to be happy for Chanda but she wanted a few bylines herself desperately. For in real, Meano was a real softie, set on making a difference to society. Full Shanti-kranti types.
But in two months’ time, she hadn’t got any nearer to filing a copy. Her mornings were spent in tracking every crash, scam and trend that had to be collated and readied for the first edit meeting. Her evenings were spent hunting for pictures of bears and bulls to go with the business page stories. Today wasn’t any better. In fact, her desk head had called in sick. This meant that Mistry was overseeing the two business pages. It only added to the chaos.
‘Minaakshi,’ barked Mistry, ‘Where is Choudhury’s column?’
Meenakshi shifted uncomfortably, looking towards her senior – the man in charge of subbing expert columns.
‘I just mailed it to her,’ he remarked icily.
‘And do you have a picture to go with it?’ demanded Mistry.
‘I’ll start looking for one,’ squeaked Meenakshi, panic writ large on her face. It was 6.30 p.m. and she had to have the pages ready by eight. Just like her senior to send the copy an hour late. She would have to beg for a two column picture from the illustrators. It would be faster than zeroing on an unused bear/bull picture.
‘Have the pages ready,’ ordered Mistry. ‘I am just down the road.’ Everybody knew what just down the road meant. He would disappear for the next 90 minutes and not pick calls. Meenakshi heard him whistle as he headed out.
Mistry was happy. The stories had been great the last ten days. But he knew that the moment he relaxed, the paper would be back to its mediocre best – missing stories and issuing corrigendums.
He sometimes wondered how much longer he could keep at it. To make sure you didn’t miss a story was a job that not many were after and only a few could do. But that’s why he was given the pent house in Prabhadevi. Perfect for one wife. A second parking lot in Dadar. Perfect after a hard day’s work.
‘Are you just going to stand there?’ asked Zoze, watching Rishi with amusement. The kid was staring at the wall of spirits. ‘Go, help yourself,’ he said, giving him a friendly push. Zoze looked around contently. He could do this forever – being a sports journalist. Attend press conferences at sports bars. Get a quote. Exit before the photographers made you and down a couple of free drinks.
Zoze peered at his watch. Half past three. Five more hours to file the story. For now, he could enjoy his drink. It really was a warm and sultry day. A typical September day in Mumbai.
As he fingered the masala peanuts, he thought about his fiance picking cashews at the plantation. Next week, he would meet her. Hic. And they would both pick. Hic. Joseph Salvador or Zoze, as his Goan Konkani family called him, had begun to smile more. The rum in his mouth and belly had begun its work.
When Rishi returned half an hour later, he found Zoze half snoring, his lips shining from the bacon-smoked rum he had been drinking. He gave his senior a rude nudge but kept his tone polite. ‘Zoze, Zoze, let’s get back to office.’
Zoze woke up, burped, checked for his mobile and notepad and got up. He gave the keys to his Enfield to Rishi saying, ‘You drive. The wind will wake me up a bit.’
Standing at 5’4”, Rishi wondered if he would be able to but once he got his leg over, he relaxed. As the engine thundered into life, his face flushed with excitement. He checked his reflection in the mirror but it was ripped by the drunken sack behind him.
‘Let uz goo,’ blurted Zoze.
Rishi rode well, to his own surprise. But at Khodadad circle, where he had to take a steep, swift right, his inexperience combined with the bike’s weight tilted it dangerously to one side until the bike fell with a heavy clunk, ejecting Rishi out of the seat. Zoze was finally awake, his left hand buried under the bike.
As the traffic police helped meander the bike through the heavy east Dadar traffic, Rishi pulled out his phone and called the office.
‘Rathore sir, there’s been an accident.’
‘What?’ asked Rathore, sounding surprised.
‘Zoze and I, we met with an accident.’
Sensing silence (or was it panic?), he added, ‘We are fine.’
‘Fine? Sala idiot,’ swore Zoze in the background.
‘When is the press conference?’ asked Rathore, a tad anxious.
‘It’s done sir. We were on our way back when this happened,’ replied Rishi, giving Zoze an anxious look. The man was stroking his left arm.
‘I’ll call you at six,’ said Rathore. ‘You can dictate the story. I’ll ask someone at the desk to take it down.’
Rishi let out a low whistle. No wonder Arjun Rathore was referred to as Master Shifu – one who had exacting standards. After what seemed like a whole minute to Rishi, Rathore asked in even tones,
‘Do you know where KEM hospital is?’
‘Zoze will know, sir,’ replied Rishi.
‘Have any money with you?’
‘Not really, sir,’ he said biting his lip.
A week after Zoze and Rishi had met with the accident, the sports desk continued to be short staffed. Zoze had had a fracture in his left arm and had been ordered three weeks of bed rest. The Goan was thrilled to go home and get warm under the covers with his fiance. Rishi had been bruised enough to look like a spare part. When he had arrived after two days with fresh, sore wounds, Mistry had ordered another week of rest, fearing the spread of infection.
A senior subeditor was already on holiday and a principal correspondent had just started her maternity
leave. Clearly, the sports desk needed more hands and many more copies. But the Hindustan Premier League (HPL) season was over. The second edition of the Hindustan Mega League (HML) was two months away. It was a blessing that the US open was just two weeks away. The desk filled its pages by analysing the season’s best bet with syndicate copies, and four column pictures of Serena and the Djoker.
Rathore knew that he had been in worse situations in the past. But he missed his full team. Over the years, they had come to share a tempo, a rhythm that he insisted upon even while performing the simple task of dribbling a ball. Handpicked by him, the sports desk had come to comprise of Ranji-level rejects, kabaddi enthusiasts, armchair athletes and a couple of truly gifted writers.
Rathore himself had penned two bestselling books. The first had been a biography of India’s most successful cricket captain and the other, a catalogue and commentary on Indian cricket’s finest and darkest hours. Rumour had it that he had been approached several times over by two cricketing legends to have their careers recorded but he hadn’t made his mind. Or even if he had, he gave nothing away.
He came to work in brightly coloured jerseys, drank from sippers, had a hoop set up on the wall opposite his desk and spent his free time dunking basketballs into it, all the time scanning the sports network like a hawk. But try as he might, his pages weren’t getting filled today. Tiny beads of sweat began to appear at the back of his crew cut. As he expertly dunked another ball through the loop, a flyer that had been sticking out from the sports desk’s pinup board caught his eye. It had been on the wall for a month now. Somewhere at the back of the mind, he had registered that the event was scheduled for Independence Day.
‘Rathore,’ barked Mistry.
Rathore strode up to Mistry’s cabin with slow, deliberate strides. He slid behind the chairs and quirked an eyebrow.
‘Do something on the Jeejeebhoys,’ Mistry said brusquely.
‘Sports mein kyun?’ Rathore asked.
‘Kyun kya? Do you have stories to fill your fucking pages?
After the Storm Page 2
