Despite being prone to the occasional road rage, Amir enjoyed driving. It put him in touch with the city and offered him its pulse. On days like this, when he managed to leave home early, he took a right at Raj Ghat and turned towards Delhi Gate. It was a narrower road, but Amir liked the drive past the Feroze Shah Kotla grounds where he used to play cricket for the university. Now it was being readied for the World Cup. He would send a reporter later to check on the progress.
Amir waited at the Delhi Gate traffic lights impatiently, drumming his fingers on the wheel and fidgeting. The left lane was notionally open, but several auto-rickshaws had arranged themselves in such a way as to completely block his path. He honked a few times out of habit, but would have been surprised had it borne any effect. Since he’d stopped smoking, traffic lights made him edgy. When his family physician and childhood friend Kabir Azam told him that it was time to quit, Amir’s first reaction had been incredulity. ‘Look, it’s true that when I smoke, my lungs complain. They ask, “Why this miserly diet? Take us to ITO!” You think cigarettes affect me? Do you ever step out of your bloody air-conditioned clinic?’ But he did quit when shown the cloud patch in his lungs.
In spite of his erratic daily habits and a not-so-rationed alcohol intake, Amir craved fitness. On most mornings he ran up the two flights of stairs to his office, and played weekend cricket at the local club. Envious overweight colleagues asked him the secret of his lean sinewy frame and Amir would reply wryly, ‘I have a dog’s stomach. It consumes butter but does not accept it.’
He reached his office at 9.15. The narrow street that ran past the newspaper buildings would soon be clogged like a smoker’s artery. The impossibly full parking lots would spit out cars and bikes, roadside tea stalls would muscle in on space, long queues and incessant honking would replace this relative calm. But for now, anyone standing at either end of Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg had an unimpeded view down this influential street.
Chhote Lal, office driver and parking attendant for the favoured few, was at the door before Amir could switch the engine off.
‘Don’t park it too far inside,’ Amir told him. ‘Takes the whole day to get it out. I might have to leave for lunch.’
‘Sir, you are not taking the loan? Everyone is getting a new car. You get a big car and then we will not be able to push it inside,’ Chhote Lal said as he took the keys.
‘Yeah-yeah, this is running fine, na? No problem with this car. You just park it,’ Amir said tetchily, heading for the stairs.
Chhote Lal and the other office drivers knew the latest management scheme to stem the flow of journalists leaving to join television. The idea was to induce them to buy cars, the more unaffordable the better, with one hundred per cent financing by the company. It would then make minor monthly deductions from their salaries. The longer it took to repay the loan, the longer a journalist was forced to stay. Or at least that was the idea; Vivek Sethi had simply told his prospective employer to buy off his loan.
Amir never applied for the scheme, partly because he liked his car of six years and partly from the fear that his application might be rejected. Even the peons knew of the disaster he had been on television a few years back. It was no secret that Amir Akhtar, the well-known chief reporter of the Express, was tied to his job. No one, not even a paranoid management, was expecting an imminent departure.
A
bhishek picked up the newspaper from the front door of his small one-room tenement, originally meant as servants’ quarters, at the back of a third-floor apartment in east Delhi. Yes, there it was – his name on the front page. Like a junkie on a first hit, he sat down and let the wave of unexpected elation sweep over him. He read the story slowly, trying to concentrate, but found it difficult to keep his eyes from the byline in bold letters: Abhishek Dutta. At that moment he was absolutely certain that nothing in his short, unremarkable life compared to this feeling. He wanted to call his parents, his relatives. He wanted to tell them not to worry; he would not be a failure. And just like a junkie, minutes later, Abhishek started to worry about the next hit, his next story.
His cellphone rang, breaking the reverie. It was Mayank Sharma.
‘Hi, Mayank.’
‘Good morning, Abhishek,’ came the friendly voice. ‘How did you do this?’
‘I am really sorry. Should have told you. I …’
‘No-no, don’t apologize. I meant when did you take the pictures? I never saw the camera.’
‘Oh, it was my phone camera. I got it recently. Works well even without a flash. But really, I am sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You didn’t mention my name. The control room guys get shafted. But it’s an excellent story. Your first, isn’t it? Congratulations.’
Abhishek was relieved. ‘Thanks, Mayank. I really enjoyed our night out.’
‘Me too. Come to the headquarters soon. Bye.’
Vivek called next. ‘Boss, you have fucked them. What a story,’ he exclaimed.
Abhishek laughed, delighting in the affirmation.
‘But you are quite a crook, you know?’ Vivek added. ‘You were going out that night and you didn’t say a word. Now tell me, who was your man? Which cop did you go with?’
‘No one. I went alone, Vivek. I stay in Mayur Vihar and thought I’d take a detour to see a bit of the city.’
‘I see.’ Vivek sounded amused. ‘You will go far, my boy.’
Abhishek hurriedly got ready. He had another idea and this might be even bigger.
In a mediated world of sponsored news, rehashed fillers, cricket and cinema gossip, Abhishek Dutta was discovering how valued a good news story is – and how heady and intoxicating its aftermath.
‘S
ixty thousand criminals vanish worldwide every year.
What does the Interpol do? Nothing,’ Uday told Mayank vehemently. The younger policeman was giving him an update on his investigations and urging him to involve intelligence agencies. It had been reconfirmed by Uday’s sources that Archana could not be traced in Singapore. Babloo’s current whereabouts was also ambiguous.
‘But should we not at least send her photos to the local agencies?’ Mayank persisted.
‘She is a chameleon, Mayank. Have you not read the files? Twice she walked out of police traps even when they had her mug shots.’ Uday looked out of his fifth-floor window and after a short silence said, ‘Our best hope is ground-level intelligence. Talk to the police stations. Find out what the beat constables are hearing – who has moved in, who has moved out. Concentrate on south and south-west Delhi. That is where they will strike.’
Mayank had grave doubts about the way his boss was handling this case. Not to send out a red alert for a known criminal who was planning an operation in your city contravened every rule he knew. He was almost certain that the DCP was not preventing a crime, but allowing it to happen.
‘Have you seen the morning papers? Was this on your night gasht?’ Uday asked, pointing at the Express, and changing the subject.
‘Yes, sir, I was there,’ Mayank replied, trying to gauge his boss’s reaction to Abhishek’s story. ‘But I had no idea that he was taking photos. I called him this morning as soon as I saw the report. He said he had used a phone camera. I am sorry, sir, I should have been more careful.’
Uday burst out laughing. ‘I hear the commissioner has already asked for an explanation. The control room idiots are running around trying to blame each other. One second, let me call our press officer,’ Uday chuckled, reaching for the phone. ‘Hello, Vikram. Bad morning for you, I hear. This new boy is good. He has screwed us.’ Uday listened for a while, the smile on his face getting bigger. ‘Ha ha, yes, I have met him. He dropped in the other day.’
Mayank, wondering at the pleasure officers got from seeing each other screwed, suppressed his own grin.
‘OK, next time Abhishek comes, send him up. Bye … Fun start to the week,’ Uday said, turning to Mayank. ‘OK, get on with it. Get me some ground information.’
As Mayank walked out
of the office, he had the distinct feeling that he was being set up for a fall. Secrecy the young officer understood, but this was surely irresponsible.
‘I
f you can cross the hurdle which will come in your mid-sixties, you have a long life. I cannot exactly see it, but an accident perhaps.’
Abhishek was sitting with six other journalists in Uday Kumar’s room and the policeman was holding court, demonstrating his palm-reading skills. These gatherings at Uday’s office were an evening ritual, regularly attended by every crime reporter in the city. In spite of the fierce competition among journalists, the DCP had found a way to keep everyone happy, doling out stories equally, and occasionally implicating troublesome fellow officers. But for such generosity, he demanded a fawning loyalty.
Inspecting Abhishek’s upwardly turned hands, Uday continued, ‘Maybe an illness. But otherwise, good steady life, excellent prospects. Your career really takes off in your thirties. How old are you now?’
‘I am twenty-three, sir. Any particular illness that you foresee? My father has diabetes. You think it could be that?’ Abhishek asked.
‘There you go,’ Uday exclaimed loudly. He dropped the reporter’s hands and hit his desk in triumph. ‘You have fallen for the classic conman’s trap – you ask a question, he knows you are hooked. This is the moment he was waiting for.’ Uday laughed at the mildly embarrassed Abhishek, and the other journalists joined in. Ridiculing the new upstart was a crucial part of the initiation.
Abhishek didn’t mind. He had just come from the PRO’s office where he had revelled in his fellow crime reporters’ praise all afternoon: ‘Great story, boss. Screwed them.’ ‘I have heard the commissioner is livid. Good story.’ ‘Hey Abhishek, yaar, what a story. Fucked them over. They deserve it, the fuckers.’
Abhishek also noted that it was the senior journalists who seemed more appreciative. Mathur sahab was the oldest of the lot. Almost seventy, short, silver-haired and missing most of his front teeth, he worked as a freelancer for the only Urdu newspaper still surviving in Delhi. He had been their crime reporter for four decades. Five years ago they retired him, only to realize that he would not stop coming.
The veteran had sat next to Abhishek and told him, ‘Very good story. It will shake the bosses upstairs.’ He flashed the young man a toothless grin. ‘Remember one thing: Never take bylines for positive stories. They will think you are a lackey. Only when you screw them, file negative stories, will they take notice of you.’
Abhishek had nodded, not sure he comprehended.
Three news channels had showed his story in their morning newspaper round-ups. A television journalist told Abhishek his channel had asked the commissioner for an official response. The press was going for the jugular, as Amir had predicted in the morning meeting.
‘You see, the moment you have turned your palm upwards and are sitting opposite me, you are assuming a vulnerable position,’ Uday, in his element now, continued. ‘Of course, I am conning you and so is the motherfucker of an astrologer who has absolutely nothing to offer. So, kid, remember: You are your own God. Uday Kumar, bhenchod, is a swindler.’ He finished and smiled at the journalists, seeking their approval.
They responded enthusiastically.
Suddenly two of the reporters’ phones began to ring almost simultaneously. As they stepped out of the office to answer them, Abhishek’s mobile also started vibrating.
Amir was on the line. ‘Where are you?’
‘At the police headquarters, sir,’ Abhishek replied.
‘OK, I’m sending a car. It will reach you in five minutes. Be downstairs. There has been a blast in a firecracker factory in Faridabad. Seems quite big. Photographer Praveen Tyagi will be going with you. He has the address. All the best.’
Abhishek joined the rush of departing journalists. His photographer was already at the gates, and he jumped into the car.
‘You know there was a fight over this assignment in the office?’ Praveen immediately volunteered.
‘No. What do you mean?’ Abhishek frowned.
‘Kavita Joshi is the night reporter. So technically any incident after five p.m. is her duty. But Amir insisted that you be sent.’
Abhishek was quiet, and then asked, ‘Are you the night photographer, Praveen?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘For this whole week.’
Praveen Tyagi was nearly forty, but had only recently been designated junior photographer. He had worked at the Express for fourteen years, he told Abhishek, the first ten as a darkroom boy and then as an assistant to the chief photographer, Kabir Jain. ‘I have been working with Kabir-ji for a long time. He taught me everything I know.’
Abhishek found Praveen’s tale heart-warming. He had grown up in a poor household in east Delhi, joining his father in his early teens at their small workshop for bike and car repairs. ‘I know everything about vehicles. Give me parts, and I can build a car from scratch,’ he told Abhishek candidly. After marriage, his wife resented his being a mere mechanic. He was also tired of the gasoline and grease. ‘Kabir-ji was a regular customer at the workshop and I used to attend to his scooter. He secured me the apprenticeship at the Express. The pay was very bad but I learnt a new trade and at night and during off days, I continued to help my father at the workshop.’
It was the evening rush hour and the traffic lurched forward in short bursts; drivers impatiently leaning on their horns and drowning out Praveen’s narrative.
‘How long will this take?’ Abhishek asked his.
‘Depends,’ he replied non-committally, waving at the traffic.
‘Don’t worry too much,’ Praveen offered. ‘You will still get your story. Where can the burnt go? You can find them in the nearest hospital. The problem is mine. If the fire is put out, I might not get a good photo.’ After a pause, he added, ‘But it is a firecracker factory. The blaze should continue.’
A
mir decided to wait for Abhishek to return from the assignment before leaving for the day. The fire had killed eighteen children and left thirty-two with severe burns. Amir knew the scenes would be horrifying, especially for a newcomer.
A little after 10 p.m., when he was editing the last story in his drop box and thinking about ordering food, Amir’s phone rang. ‘Matera. All well?’
‘Salaam, sir,’ the young criminal’s cheerful voice came on the line. ‘I have some news.’
‘Yes?’
Amir listened carefully as Matera told him about Friday night’s party and the car on the street.
‘I was drunk, Amir Bhai. I went right up to the car. Salim Bhai was there and he got very angry on seeing me. He immediately sent me off.’
‘Did you see who was in the car, Matera?’
‘A man and a woman, sir. I saw that. Top-notch woman that too.’
Amir kept prodding, but couldn’t get any more details. ‘I’ll call soon. And in the meantime, keep that paan-chewing mouth of yours shut.’
Amir looked up as Abhishek, still wearing his overcoat, arrived back in the office. As soon as she saw him, Kavita Joshi stomped out.
‘File two copies,’ Amir told the pale young man. ‘One with all essential details: how many dead, how many injured, where, what, how. Then file a personal account: what you saw, people you spoke to, their reactions. OK?’
Abhishek nodded.
‘I am here if you need any help,’ Amir added gently.
‘Write a straight report,’ Abhishek told himself, switching on the computer.
More than fifty children were working in an illegal firecracker factory in Faridabad. Aged between nine and fourteen, they came from Sivakasi in the state of Tamil Nadu, a place whose only stamp on modern India was to provide it with firecrackers for celebrating festivals, victories in cricket matches and weddings. No-no, that is commentary; Abhishek checked himself and tried again.
Sivakasi is famous for producing firecrackers, and its children, because of their familiarity with the trade, are regularly sent to factories in different I
ndian cities. The cause of the fire was not yet confirmed, but the police suspect a short circuit in the wiring. It took six hours to bring the blaze under control, the area superintendent of police said, ‘because of the highly inflammable goods kept in the factory, the fire spread rapidly and was difficult to contain’. The death count now stands at twenty but is certain to rise. Of the thirty injured some have suffered one hundred per cent burns, but for some reason are refusing to die. No-no – just that they have suffered one hundred per cent burns, and the doctors attending to them have said that there is little they can do.
Should he write about that girl who, covered with a white sheet, her face completely burnt, had stared at him mutely? Or should he leave that for the personal account? Should he write about the television crew that had insisted on using their harsh lights in the dim corridors of the provincial hospital, inflicting even more suffering on those children? The doctors had pleaded with the cameramen and their assistants, and then given up.
Abhishek got up and went to the toilet. He splashed water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d thought that he would have cried, maybe vomited out the horrors he had seen that evening. But nothing happened. He remained calm. The pressman’s immunity was beginning to cloak itself around him.
He came back to his desk, finished the reports, and took them to Amir.
His boss was flipping through the photographs of the fire. ‘Fucker can’t get a decent shot. Sorry I sent him with you. He should have remained a darkroom assistant, stupid mechanic. No bloody news sense.’
Abhishek waited till both copies were cleared before speaking to Amir. ‘Sir, I have a story idea.’
The Price You Pay Page 8