Maybe it’s the business guys, political heavyweights, people like Sudha and Andrew, who are the ones in demand. Who’d be interested in storytellers in a culture steered by commerce?
The only place I’ve worked at isMorning Herald. I was one of those odd journalists of my generation who didn’t jump jobs with the frequency of two-wheelers switching lanes on a Bengaluru road. It wasn’t a case of landing the perfect job first up, if there’s any such thing as a perfect job, but living here, I couldn’t have asked for much more. I made decent money; I got my raises and promotions even before I asked for them.
People with my capability in Delhi and Mumbai earned much more; I was aware of that. Not that I needed a heftier bank balance, but it would’ve been nice to take my father on a trip.
I was still to celebrate my 30th birthday, but I was already heading a department, which wasn’t common in traditional media houses. I wasn’t a favourite, but I wasn’t disliked either. I got by. What I liked aboutMorning Heraldis that I had the freedom to function. I had floated the crime column; yes, my editor did sit on it for a month or two, but he gave me all the support I needed once we were off the blocks. It was the most-talked-about feature of the paper, and I got due credit.
So, where was I going to go looking for a suitable opening? Bengaluru wouldn’t do. I couldn’t live in the same city as Andrew. Persistence is powered by proximity. It would be too easy for him to knock on my door and for my treacherous heart to relent.
Sudha had told me a year or two ago that she had been asked if I was looking to switch jobs. People apparently thought I wasn’t willing to shift base because of my family situation.
‘Surely I’m not the only single woman with a parent to care for in journalism.’
‘No,’ she had agreed. ‘But sometimes, just by being ourselves, we lend to a reputation that precedes us.’
The patriarchy, maybe. Could be geography, too. A Bengaluru thing, a South thing.
I briefly considered one ofMH’s bureau offices, perhaps in Mumbai or Delhi. I dismissed the thought swiftly. If Andrew was editor, which he would be soon enough, I would have to deal with him on a daily basis. Besides, the organization would do everything possible to talk me out ofshifting cities. I couldn’t leave the door half-open. I had to move out.
Did I want to live anywhere else?
I loved Bengaluru, all of it. It’s unruly traffic and pot-holed streets, lined by sturdy gulmohars. The honking taxis and swerving two-wheelers, pedestrians who walked on roads and spat on pavements, the Kannadiga who’ll speak to an outsider in Hindi even if he couldn’t string two words in the language. The city may have long traded its fair-weather charm of the eighties, yet, for me, there was no place quite its equal. I loved the weather despite the wear of climate change. The summer heat is sharp but never oppressive, maybe because of the gentle breeze that rustles through your hemline and wipes your face.
Home is where your family is, your best friend resides, the only place on the planet where the positives go over the negatives even if they outweigh them. I had to leave it, though; there was no other way.
I had to leave Dad. I had to leave Chhaya. I had to leave this bed.
I scrolled through my phone, up and down and back again. I looked at every outstation number I had on it. I considered the ones I thought were a possibility. Would they be safe to ping?
Over the years, I had made contacts all over the country – journalists whom I travelled with on assignments and junkets, bonds I had made over wine and dinner and cemented when I travelled to Mumbai or Delhi or the tier-two towns on work. I made a list of seven people, all senior in the profession, whom I could reach out to, let them know I was in the market. I would request them to be discreet. I couldn’t afford forMorning Heraldto hear about this.
I shot each of the editors carefully worded messages, finishing with a request for a time to have a chat.
My head was in charge now. If I so much as asked myself how I would feel about leaving not justMorning Heraldbut Bengaluru, too, I couldn’t go through with it.
Chapter 27
I got my first offer two weeks after I sent out feelers. The money was good; it could pay for that holiday I wanted to take my dad on, but I was unsure of how the place functioned. I would be the features editor and report to an associate editor, whom I didn’t know, not even by reputation.
I would be managing a raw team in a city where I would be starting from scratch. It would take me years. Mumbai, the country’s commercial capital, was so removed from Bengaluru culturally that I could’ve relocated to Moscow.
I parked my car in Andrew’s basement and messaged him. I told him that I wanted to see him. I waited until he replied, which, as always, was immediately, even before I rang his doorbell.
Andrew opened the door, wearing his welcoming smile. His red shorts, which I remembered from our trip to Coonoor, were partially hidden by the door, and his left hand waved me in.
I focused on the room. It was bright; he had drawn the curtains. He did that for a couple of hours each day to let the sun in. His fragrance was all over the sitting area. Didhe dunk it on himself the moment he woke up or was it just before I entered? I placed my bag down carefully and sat next to it. We hadn’t said a word to each other, but the smile had disappeared from his face. I had been avoiding him in office these last few days, which he had noticed but hadn’t brought up.
‘I’m quitting,’ I said after squeezing out every strain of emotion that threatened to tinge my declaration in ambiguity.
Andrew’s brow shot up. ‘Those messages–’
‘Have nothing to do with my decision.’ I completed the sentence for him.
Andrew was seated at the end of the long divan at the head of which I sat. I could tell he was uncomfortable. I rested my back against the only arm it had. He shifted to the leather sofa and dropped his elbows on his knees.
I told him I was moving to Mumbai in three months; that was the notice period. I was joining the online portal ‘The Full Story’. I would put in my papers atMorning Heraldin the next half hour, hopefully. I had already typed out the six-line letter. It was sitting in my drafts.
‘Why?’ he asked. If I wasn’t putting in my papers because of Pooja’s messages, then what was it? He wanted the reason.
