I looked up reluctantly. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Not that my disinterest registered on him.
‘I think,’ he said, placing a steaming cup of filter coffee before me, ‘he’s taking over as executive editor.’
‘Who?’ I was irritated and let it show.
Rajesh had plodded into my cabin on the pretext of getting me an over-sweetened coffee he knew I wouldn’t touch even with my pinky.
‘Andrew Brown,’ he said, adding, ‘Didn’t Mr Kumar just tell you that? He has joined us.’
‘Oh yeah! He’s going to head the political bureau or some such,’ I said, my eyes going back to the computer screen.
‘That’s to begin with. He’ll be taking over – captain of the ship – in a couple of months, if my sources are right.’
‘Good for him.’ The king of clichés was grating on my nerves.
‘How can you say that? It’s so unfair; everybody is so upset,’ he said.
I was aware ‘everybody’ was probably just him, but he had stirred the pot, and I was curious. ‘Why?’
‘They should’ve taken someone in-house, like Sudha, or you maybe…’ he said, pausing only to take in my reaction, ‘or Saravanan.’
‘Saravanan…’ I shook my head. ‘Sudha would’ve been great.’
‘Or someone younger, like you.’
I smiled and decided to play along. ‘Or you.’
‘Or me!’ He was beaming as he lifted his ungainly self.
It had been ages since I had played pass the parcel, but it was good to know that my skills hadn’t softened.
I watched him leave my space laughing. On his way to another audience.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Coffee!’
But before that steaming stab of caffeine, I needed some air. A quick turn around the central business district (CBD), feeling the January sun on my skin.
While sipping my morning brew, I wanted to chew on everything I had heard.
Andrew Brown, I tried to say, settling into a randomly placed chair at a takeaway counter that offered the odd seat. It wasn’t going down, not even with this scald-the-lips, burn-the-tongue concoction.
I’m in the business of news, and I had no idea. No fucking idea.
Chapter 2
I swiped in early the following morning. I was to rewrite some data-based copy on migrant labour. It was the best fit in terms of size and content to replace my argument on the case of students turning the street into a stage.
I was vexed at having to put my story on hold. I had done the reference and spoken to a dozen people. I had written most of the feature. But how do you fight an issue, especially when arrests had been made?
‘Myraah…’
The call crashed into my thoughts. It brought down the sheesham-panelled walls that flanked me. I didn’t need to look. Naked without the boundaries of construction or distance.
I recognized the voice. The way my name finished on his lips, a triumphant ‘ah’ rather than an ‘a’. A knock had preceded the call. I knew that too – one firm rap. He was conscious of his surroundings, wary of disturbing people. There was never more than one attempt unless it was an emergency.
I continued to work on my keyboard, which, like me, had known better days. I needed time to fix my expression.
When I looked up, I saw that God had framed the entrance to my cabin. All 6’4” of him. A black tee that said nothing and blue jeans that had weathered a storm. I wondered if the blue hoodie, stray filaments of which sat stubbornly on the right shoulder, was draped across the backrest of his chair. The sharply cut sleeves revealed sculpted, slightly hirsute arms. His lips had broken into a lopsided grin.
