The Price You Pay

by Somnath Batabyal

  14

  A

  bhishek was in an underground parking lot filled with cars, trying to find a place for his scooter. Unlike the car park at the Express, where scores of two-wheelers lined in rows kept each other company, here his second-hand Bajaj was an anomaly.

  He took the lift to the ground level, emerging in the afternoon sunlight at the foot of an impressive, shiny new complex. This was his first visit to Gurgaon, a suburb which in the past decade had come of age. Delhi was choked for places of leisure and its cultural capital still managed to stand in the way of a club membership or a desired table for the newly moneyed. In quest of golf courses and Olympic-size swimming pools, these new gods of India created Gurgaon.

  After an hour’s struggle against four-wheel drives and their bullying honks on the road, for a moment, Abhishek was disorientated by the quiet polish of the air-conditioned interior. His own office building involuntarily sprang to mind: its entrance regularly picketed by workers protesting the closing of an Urdu newspaper, the red stains of betel-nut juice on the walls marking a losing battle. Here, instead of annoying parking attendants clogging the staircase, a receptionist smartly directed him to the News Today offices on the third floor, checking his name against a list of expected visitors. Could he please pin this pass on so that it was clearly visible? A uniformed security guard accompanied him to the lift.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ a young woman asked as she seated Abhishek in the lobby.

  ‘A glass of water, please,’ he said, sinking into the plush leather sofa.

  A flat-screen television was showing the news and Abhishek glowed inwardly as he saw the headlines flashing the licensing story and the upcoming inquiry. Tepid coffee in a plastic cup and a few cookies were graciously offered to him with a glass of water.

  Several of the faces around him were recognizable from television. People moved about quickly. Even the receptionist, though glued to a chair beside a large computer screen, seemed to convey alacrity. At this hour, back at the Express, a few subeditors would be lounging on worn sofas, detaining whoever passed with lazy sociability. Gossip would permeate the room, slowing even the most urgent tasks.

  Abhishek kept his eyes fixed on the television screen as he noticed Sandeep Bhushan, News Today’s crime reporter, entering the lobby. This was one encounter Abhishek had hoped to avoid.

  ‘Boss, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Hi, Sandeep. How are you?’

  ‘You here for a job? Whom are you meeting?’ Sandeep asked.

  ‘No, no. Was just passing through,’ Abhishek floundered. ‘Vivek Sethi, my former colleague, is here now. I dropped by to meet him.’

  ‘Passing through Gurgaon? Anyway, good story yesterday. I’m doing a follow-up. Guess I’ll be seeing more of you around.’

  Abhishek was still recovering from the awkward encounter when an impeccably dressed man of about his age approached. ‘Abhishek Dutta? My name is Neeraj Mishra. I’m the human resources manager here. Please do come.’

  He had purchased that voice in a foreign university, Abhishek thought. Something about the man immediately made him feel inadequate.

  Neeraj seated Abhishek in a small conference room one floor above.

  ‘Right. Let me have a look at your CV,’ he began.

  ‘I haven’t got a CV. I mean, I wasn’t told to bring anything.’

  Neeraj frowned. ‘You have come here for a job, haven’t you?’

  The voice was impossibly supercilious and it grated.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I was told to meet Samir Saxena this evening and that’s why I came.’

  ‘Yes, but all appointments must go through us. That’s how we operate here. Who called you?’

  ‘Vivek Sethi.’

  Neeraj excused himself and returned ten minutes later, slightly deflated. ‘Mr Saxena is indeed waiting for you. If you will follow me, please.’

  After Vivek’s call last night, Abhishek had phoned to tell his mother he would be meeting Samir Saxena. She had been rendered speechless, he could tell. For a moment he thought she had fainted. He asked her if she had been following his licence story in Benares.

  ‘Yes, yes. It’s on television here. But tell me, what will you wear? And make sure you take a shower. Will you go to the temple first?’

  Abhishek had smiled. Religion and hygiene – Ma managed to bring them into everything. But he knew she was proud. By tomorrow their entire colony would know.

  Samir Saxena’s face invaded bedrooms and living rooms all over India. It contorted itself earnestly in hotel lobbies and restaurants, and bore down smilingly from billboards on highways from Mumbai to the Bay of Bengal. Samir was India’s first news celebrity and, for two decades, its most respected icon. Abhishek had seen the man reporting on wars in the Middle East, and earthquakes in Pakistan, conversing with heads of state in New York and Beijing, and dining with the Clintons. Bollywood mughals begged his presence at their movie premieres.

  Abhishek was about to meet a childhood hero.

  Neeraj led him to a newsroom which covered an entire floor and buzzed with activity. Someone was recording a piece to camera in one corner and dozens of television screens flashed overhead. People were clustered around computers, speaking impenetrable jargon on phones and to each other. Abhishek tried, for a fleeting moment, to picture Amir here but it was too incongruous, almost cruel.

  There were glass cabins in each corner and Abhishek followed Neeraj towards the largest. He could see Samir Saxena sitting with his back to the newsroom, staring out of a window. He was the only one who seemed to be without a job, Abhishek thought, as he was shown in.

  Samir swivelled around in his chair and stood up smiling, hand outstretched. He was taller than he appeared on TV and the curly hair had streaks of grey, but the grin was as infectious in person as it was on screen. Abhishek was a bit taken aback by the clothes – a smart jacket and tie with trackpants and sports shoes. He kept his eyes on Samir’s face, not letting the surprise show.

  ‘Abhishek, come, come. I’ve been waiting for you. You’re late. No matter. Sit, sit.’

  ‘I am sorry, sir. I was here in time but had to wait downstairs, and then Neeraj Mishra had a meeting with me.’

  ‘Neeraj who?’ Samir asked.

  ‘The human resources gentleman who just showed me up – Neeraj Mishra.’

  ‘Ah, these management idiots. Don’t worry about them. Tell me, how are you?’

  The words came out in a rush. Abhishek tried to say how honoured he was to meet Samir, how his work life was taking off; his new experiences, and the terrific feeling of being a journalist. Samir kept smiling indulgently, nodding.

  ‘My parents are big fans of yours,’ the young man ended.

  ‘Thank you, Abhishek, thank you. But it’s not all glamour, my friend. Have you seen my trousers?’

  ‘Yes, I did, actually,’ Abhishek said hesitantly.

  ‘I was playing soccer with my son and was suddenly called in to anchor. Thankfully there are always a few shirts and jackets lying around in the studio. They promised that there would be no long shots.’ Samir flashed his trademark, toothy grin. ‘But enough of me. Until now, my friend, you’ve been playing Twenty20 games. That’s not really cricket, is it? Tell me, are you ready to play Test matches?’

  Before Abhishek could think of a suitable response, Samir continued, ‘That’s an unfair question. Vivek, good man that he is, has not told you what this is about, has he? I’ve been following your stories and we could do with a person like you. We want young fresh faces with a commitment to journalism. Everyone here is a star but I want reporters. So come, join my team.’

  Abhishek had not expected things to happen so easily, and certainly not that Samir Saxena would be courting him. He groped for an appropriate reaction.

  ‘Look, go take a tour of the premises and think about it,’ Samir said kindly. ‘Let’s get that idiot – what was his name – Neeraj Mishra to show you around. What do you say?’

 
News Today occupied four floors of a nine-storey building in one of Gurgaon’s biggest commercial sectors. Sitting in the canteen having a coffee, Abhishek stared at this new India being constructed in front of his eyes; high-rise buildings climbing higher as cement mixers whirred and cranes slung more and more metal onto the horizon. IBM, Microsoft and Intel rubbed shoulders with the home-grown multinationals, Reliance and Wipro. L’Oréal and Lakmé jostled for attention beside an immense cut-out of Shah Rukh Khan telling everyone to ‘Get Fairer in Four Weeks’.

  The reporter was being offered a choice between the chaos of central Delhi and the sleekness of this office; the pizza- and hot-dog-serving cafeteria and the oily dosas of the airless dhaba at ITO, forever crowded with newspaper vendors and press boys in grimy clothes.

  ‘You have a gym?’ Abhishek asked in awe as Neeraj showed off the facilities.

  ‘Yes, of course. A trainer comes twice a week. You can make an appointment.’

  Abhishek had a sudden vision of Vivek Sethi panting away on the treadmill.

  ‘It’s very important for us that our employees look after their health,’ Neeraj explained. ‘We encourage everyone to be regulars here. Also, and this we will discuss in detail later, we’ll be offering you comprehensive health insurance.’

  Back in the newsroom, Samir was standing with two journalists, watching a television screen. Neeraj left Abhishek to wait in the boss’s cabin.

  After an incredible hour, he was suddenly alone. He made a few calls – routine checks – and was relieved to learn there had been no major incidents. He wondered what he was going to tell Amir.

  ‘A

  ll okay?’ Maya asked worriedly as Abhishek joined his colleagues in a cafe.

  He nodded. ‘Guys, I need your advice. Something has come up. News Today has offered me a position in their investigative bureau. They want me to join immediately.’

  ‘Wow,’ Rahul exclaimed. ‘Congratulations, boss. This is good news. What’s the package?’

  Rahul always came to the point, Abhishek thought. Yes, the package was good. Brilliant, in fact. During the ride back, his mind had vacillated uneasily between thoughts of betrayal and the promise of creature comforts. Besides a salary of 50,000 rupees, the company would help him relocate to an apartment in Gurgaon. They would even give him a car loan. ‘I’ll need to learn driving,’ he had told Samir.

  ‘After what you’ve done,’ his prospective boss had laughed, ‘I doubt anyone would give you a licence.’

  ‘Why did you call us?’ Maya asked sharply.

  ‘To discuss this with you.’ Abhishek was surprised at the question and the tone.

  ‘Discuss or gloat? You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you? You are just telling us how great everybody finds you and that we should share the same feeling. You’re great. We agree. How many more times do you want us to say it?’

  ‘Hey, take it easy, Maya.’ Rahul looked from one to the other.

  ‘What do you mean, take it easy, Rahul?’ She turned on him. ‘He sends us this worrying text to meet him urgently. I come rushing from an assignment, and all he has to say is that he has been offered fuckloads of money for a new job. I mean, what the hell? If he wants to fish for compliments, can’t he at least wait?’

  ‘Maya, I really wanted your opinion on this,’ Abhishek said indignantly, stunned at her aggression.

  ‘Really? You really want my opinion? Then I think you should think things through much more before you say yes. You have barely understood journalism. You have got a few lucky stories with help from the bosses; nothing more. So, calm down and maybe you’ll learn something.’

  Abhishek felt angry and humiliated. Maya was so rude to him these days. When Mihir had rebuked him, she had not offered a word of support or commiseration. She never mentioned his stories. And now, here she was, once again revealing a mean, selfish streak. All because he had asked for advice on a job offer he had got. And she hadn’t.

  ‘You are right, Maya, I shouldn’t have come to you for advice. Sorry for wasting your time. But since you have come, at least hear me out.’

  Rahul was looking increasingly uncomfortable.

  ‘I don’t know much about journalism perhaps,’ Abhishek continued, ‘but I have come to know something about journalists. None of you are happy when a colleague does well. Tell me, how many stories have you done in the past month that have hit the front page?’

  ‘Okay, Abhishek, stop,’ Rahul interrupted. ‘Let’s go, guys.’

  ‘No, no, let him finish,’ Maya said quietly. ‘I want to hear this.’

  ‘I don’t have much to say. Just that you wouldn’t really know the value of money, would you? Your father runs the intelligence services in this country. How would you know what it is to live on a meagre salary like mine when you go for assignments in a chauffeur-driven government car?’

  ‘That’s it. Stop right there,’ Maya exploded, pointing a finger at him. ‘You burn your bridges too easily, Abhishek Dutta. I pray you never have to turn back. Bye.’ She stormed out.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Rahul asked. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Abhishek said, embarrassed and defensive. ‘But tell me, did I say anything that’s incorrect?’

  ‘That family shit was way out of line,’ Rahul said, shaking his head. ‘Who told you that anyway?’

  ‘Just got to know. Her father heads RAW and she tells me about morality!’

  ‘Okay, let’s go now,’ Rahul said, getting up. ‘I’ve got work to do. Coffee is on you today. Congratulations again.’

  Abhishek decided to walk the half-kilometre to the office. He had checked the police bulletin. The three road accidents, the chain-snatching case and minor burglary could all go in the daily crime brief.

  Despite the anger he was feeling, some of Maya’s venom had stuck. As his work was praised and his stories repeatedly hit the front pages, he had often wondered how it was all possible. She was right. What did he know about investigative journalism? But with the money offered by the channel, there was really no choice. When he’d called his parents to give them the news, his father had simply said, ‘After thirty years of service I don’t earn that much. Take it.’

  Abhishek dragged his feet as he climbed the steps to his office. How would he explain this? Television … What would his caustic old boss say?

  Amir was the first person he saw as he entered.

  ‘Will you quickly finish the crime diary? Is there anything else?’ Amir asked.

  ‘No, nothing special today. I wanted to have a word with you at some point.’

  ‘Yes, I know. The evening meeting is in ten minutes. So after that?’

  Abhishek headed towards the reporting unit. What did he mean he knew? Who had told him? Divya and Kavita looked up from their work as he came in. The glances they exchanged told Abhishek that he need not bother making any announcements. The unofficial wire agency had done the job.

  He sat down at his desk and switched on the computer.

  ‘So, I hear congratulations are in order.’ Kavita’s sarcasm was palpable.

  Abhishek looked up inquiringly.

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ she said, exasperated. ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘It’s just an offer. I haven’t decided anything.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Abhishek, at least tell the truth sometimes,’ Divya joined in. ‘You’ve decided and you’re joining. Why can’t you just say that? What’s the big deal? You think we will be begging you to stay?’ She snorted and turned back to the screen.

  What the hell was the matter with all of them? Why were they so vicious? Abhishek was livid but said nothing. Rahul and Maya sat at their desks quietly, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Seems like a graveyard in here. What’s up?’ Amir came in from the evening meeting in unusually high spirits. ‘I wish I got this silence every time I wanted it. Abhishek, shall we?’

  Once inside his cabin, Amir said, ‘Tell me?’

  ‘You know, right?’
Abhishek hesitated.

  ‘No, I don’t. Please tell me what you want to say.’

  ‘Okay, sorry. I thought you knew. Thing is I’ve just been offered a job at News Today as a senior investigative reporter. It happened this afternoon.’

  ‘Okay, good,’ Amir said without a trace of emotion. ‘When do you want to join?’

  ‘Well, Samir Saxena said Monday but that’s too soon, of course, and I will stay as long as you need me.’

  ‘No, don’t worry about that. You put in your papers right now and I will hand it to the editor.’

  ‘Right now?’ Abhishek was stunned.

  ‘Yes. You don’t have a notice period. You are on probation. So just write the letter.’ Amir handed him a pen and paper and turned to the computer screen.

  How does one write a resignation letter? What do you say? Do you just write that you’ve been offered a better job and therefore need to leave? Do you say you are grateful for opportunities given; no hard feelings, assuming there will be some, and you hope to stay in touch? How do you write contradictions into an official goodbye – the turmoil of not wanting to leave and the lure of what awaits?

  Abhishek sat, pen in hand, wondering how his world had become this unpredictable.

  ‘Look, go to your desk. Write it there,’ Amir relented.

  Abhishek, nearing tears, hurriedly left the cabin.

  T

  hat same December weekend, a man on a stretcher, accompanied by a doctor and nurse, landed at Kolkata International Airport. From there they immediately proceeded towards Delhi where, as the paperwork produced by the doctor suggested, the patient was scheduled to have open-heart surgery.

  To Babloo Shankar, the timing and choice of the port of entry had been obvious. Kolkata airport employed the laziest bunch of officials in the country and, on a weekend, they begrudged every minute spent behind the airless booths. In the unlikely event of any vigilance among the staff, Babloo had also ensured that two compromised senior intelligence officers were placed on standby.