I was headed in the direction of my cabin with my editor on my heels, rattling like an overloaded bus. Talking but not making sense.
I needed a few minutes to fix my head and grab a coffee. Not in that order. Today was too-few-hours Thursday, not can-afford-to-stray Tuesday. The weekend supplement is put to bed early on Friday.
How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.
I exhaled. It was forced.
I had written most of my story, which was on the resurgent culture of street theatre in Bengaluru. Student groups used this informal presentation to capsule powerful messages, raising awareness on burning issues. My piece was the lead until the chief reporter called me this morning, waking me up with news of a recent shenanigan. A bunch ofcollegians had been picked up by plain-clothes policemen during a recent performance. They had been charged with selling drugs.
I didn’t need the company of a genial editor on a day like this. I was by my seat, facing my desktop. I refused to make eye contact with him, preferring to gaze at the xanthic panelling at the far end of the office.
I had ignored his knock, not that these subtleties ever worked in a newspaper office.
‘My dear, I need to have a word with you,’ he said, taking my iPad from my hand and placing it on the table.
Raj Kumar was a dapper 56-year-old, a thorough gentleman, which was the only reason his female workforce put up with his endearments.
‘I’m not going to take much of your time. I know today is a busy day for you,’ he said as he fiddled with a coffee mug that contained dry pens from maybe the last century.
‘I wanted to tell you myself,’ he said slowly, squaring his shoulders and straightening his back. ‘Andrew Brown is joining us.’
There was only one Andrew Brown in journalism.
I tried to nod, but my neck was frozen. I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn’t move. My eyes shifted between the computer screen and my boss before getting stuck on him. His chest had puffed, and his eyes sparkled with a weirdly happy look.
The scent was beginning to surround me. Again. Cigarettes, lust and Davidoff. Andrew Brown.
‘Here? Is he?’ Grammar had abandoned me.
Mr Kumar smiled. ‘Obviously, you are eager to meet him, and why not? He’s a good-looking chap,’ he said with a wink. ‘You probably know him. He did his schooling in Bangalore Scottish. You went there too, right?’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘He, too, went to Bangalore Scottish.’
My school. This is my city, andMorning Heraldis my newspaper. I’m not dead; I just haven’t had coffee yet.
‘There,’ Mr Kumar said, smiling, rubbing his hands together, ‘I knew you’d want to meet him.’
‘I know Andrew. Who doesn’t?’ I said, summoning fake cheer, like the faux diamonds on my earlobe.
‘He was here, completing formalities.’
I was on my feet, and Mr Kumar followed suit. My face had broken into a demented grin in a determined effort to commune with my editor.
‘He’s joining as political editor,’ he said. Then added, ‘That’s for now; we have other plans for him.’
‘Of course.’How about plans for me?That would be quadrillionth on the waitlist.
I waited for Mr Kumar to leave before dropping into my chair.
Hold on! When did this happen? My hand went to my desk calendar. January 2018. I only woke up 40 minutes late, not 40 years.
Until last week, Andrew was based out of New York, or so his column said. He was a successful journalist and co-author of the bestsellingIndia: She’ll Unmask You, a sketch of the political climate in the country that was churning out captains, not leaders.
I had followed Andrew’s career as it skyrocketed. He had left Bengaluru eight years ago to do his master’s in legal studies at Harvard. Outside of interning at a boutique practice in New York City, he didn’t pursue the line he had chosen. What started as a dialogue on social media, when he was still studying, veered into a political blog. In an already simmering international climate, his aggressive stand was well received, not just in an informedglobal market, but more importantly, amongst the youth. Not long after, he was snapped up as a columnist by a prominent publication. There! I remember.
Rajesh Soor, the metro chief, entered my cabin without knocking or asking.
There was nothing Soor hadn’t seen or heard aroundMorning Herald, including events that had never happened.
