The Price You Pay

by Somnath Batabyal

  Listening to the tape now in the edit suite, Abhishek laughed aloud. There was a knock. ‘Call for you at the input desk.’

  ‘Hello, is this Abhishek Dutta?’

  ‘Yes, who is this?’

  ‘This is Ranjana Shetty. I believe you are doing a story which involves me.’

  Somebody is fucking with me, he thought. How did she know? Who told her?

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Abhishek replied, collecting himself. ‘I was going to contact you for a quote. I’m doing a story on the ticket-selling for your charity event.’

  ‘First, you must come and see the work that we do,’ she said.

  ‘I will indeed do so. But the story will have to go on air this evening, ma’am, so I need a quote from you on this today. I can come to wherever you are now.’

  ‘The story is not going anywhere. Why don’t you first come and meet me and see the work my NGO does?’ Shetty insisted.

  He tried to argue and was rudely cut off. ‘Look, the story is not happening. So come and meet me.’

  Abhishek put the phone down and walked towards Samir’s office in a trance. This story, he knew, was over.

  ‘W

  hat?’ Mayank leaned forward, suddenly realizing that his driver was speaking to him.

  ‘Sir, madam had said that she wanted me to get some shopping done. Shall I go after dropping you at the club?’

  ‘Which madam?’ Mayank asked, his mind elsewhere.

  ‘Your mother, sir.’

  Damn ma, he thought angrily. It didn’t matter how many times he insisted his office car must never be used for personal work, his family wilfully pretended deafness. ‘No,’ Mayank snapped. ‘You stay put. Give me the list. I’ll do it.’

  Ritika called on his mobile to thank him for the flowers he had sent. Could they meet at the weekend? ‘I have nothing planned right now, so yes,’ he replied happily. ‘But you know that something might come up?’ It was best to be clear from the very beginning about the demands on his time and the pressures of work. She said she understood.

  Mayank had agreed to the marriage and the delight expressed by both families confirmed that he had made the right choice. The point system he had devised with his counsellor had made the decision easy and logical, sure, but it did help that he was attracted to her. In a life consumed by duty, career and parents, Ritika was a charming and welcome addition.

  He found Abhishek sitting in the lobby of the Gymkhana Club where the two young men had arranged to meet. He looked awful, Mayank thought. ‘Sorry I am late. Last-minute meeting. You okay?’

  Abhishek nodded. ‘I need your help on a story.’

  It seemed an innocuous enough request coming from a reporter to a policeman. ‘Of course,’ Mayank said, leading him towards the coffee shop next door.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, as they sat down.

  ‘Is Babloo Shankar coming back?’

  ‘What?’ Mayank looked flabbergasted. ‘How do you know?’ His reaction, and he would kick himself later, was an obvious mistake.

  Abhishek refused to say how he had got the information and Mayank absolutely refused to give any more. They had reached stalemate.

  Mayank tried one last time to dissuade his friend. ‘A journalist has to go beyond a story. There is an issue of national importance here, do you understand?’

  Abhishek remained quiet for a while and then said, ‘You know, Mayank, Uday and Amir are great friends.’

  The cop nodded, unsure of where this was leading.

  ‘Amir told me their friendship was built on something Uday told him when they first started to meet. He said that whatever Amir found out, Uday wouldn’t stop him from writing; whatever Uday could hide, he would. Perhaps we need a similar agreement.’

  S

  amir was on the phone with the CEO. ‘Abhishek is right,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent. That’s great,’ Ashok Desai said excitedly. ‘I’m in a meeting. Shall we meet in half an hour? We need to plan this.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come up,’ the newsman replied and put the phone down.

  As a general rule, Samir trusted his reporters but this story was big and the boy was new. Abhishek had refused to disclose his sources and, when told that Samir would have to do a fact check, had insisted that the police should not be approached. It had taken Samir a while to track down the two Interpol officers.

  Uday Kumar, they had confirmed, had sent out an alert that Babloo Shankar had landed in Kolkata recently and was now holed up somewhere in the capital. The importance and scope of the story did not need reiterating. Samir was in college when Babloo had burst onto the crime scene. The kidnapper’s rise to fame had caught the public imagination: his gangster brother, his glamorous cohorts, the high-profile kidnappings and then one day, his sudden disappearance. It was like a Bollywood script conjured up by an overactive imagination.

  Abhishek was sitting in the newsroom and Samir beckoned to him through the glass of his cabin. The boy had a rough first month and Samir had failed him once. He wasn’t going to do it again.

  ‘Done, checked. You’re right,’ Samir said, as Abhishek walked in. The boy shook the proffered hand, unsmiling, apprehensive. ‘Sit down and loosen up. We’ll go big with this. Don’t worry,’ he said jovially.

  Abhishek remained quiet.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. I was told something similar a couple of days back.’

  ‘I know, I know. Look, that was an anomaly. It doesn’t usually happen, Abhishek. Editorial here is independent.’ He moved on quickly. ‘The initiation has been rough for you. Don’t think I’m oblivious. I was aware of what our resident bastard did to you, but didn’t intervene because I wanted to see how you manage. You stuck it out. We do that to people here: throw them in at the deep end. You are still swimming, so you’re okay.’

  Samir got up and walked towards the window. ‘I met Amir three days back,’ he said. ‘He is one of my heroes, you know. I grew up reading his scoops and wanted to be like him. He told me that getting you here was one of the smartest decisions I ever made.’

  ‘Really?’ Abhishek felt a huge surge of pleasure, tinged with guilt.

  Samir turned back to face him. ‘He might be my hero, but we don’t see eye to eye on television journalism. He only sees problems whereas I see areas to improve. I fundamentally disagree with him that print is some sort of utopia and television is kitsch. I’ve done both.’

  ‘I think, so has Amir,’ Abhishek ventured quietly.

  Samir smiled. ‘My print experience wasn’t as disastrous. I think his is a personal problem rather than an objective evaluation. And I think you too are seeing things in a narrow way. You had a short, good run with print journalism and going by the stories you’re doing, you’ll have an even better time in TV. Hopefully, you’ll even make some money.’

  Samir returned to his desk and sat across from Abhishek. ‘I know there are problems here, but remember that this is a very new industry; we are trying to set standards here as well as being a profit-making corporate entity. Amir says that a journalist cannot be an accountant. I say he needs to be accountable to the salary he is paid. And if I have anything to do with it, it should be a damn good one.’

  ‘Amir once told me that in television there are just three topics: cinema, cricket and crime,’ Abhishek said.

  ‘Well, let me add another one, “crap”,’ Samir responded, smiling. ‘But seriously, television has done some great exposés in this country, and underpaid print reporters should not make a virtue of poverty. If you are poor, it doesn’t mean you are a better journalist than I am. I think of it this way: The print industry has been around for nearly one hundred and fifty years; there is always precedence, something it can fall back upon. It grew with India’s independence struggle, was an ally, a partner to the movement. It has a rich and amazing history. We are new, we are searching for a path, and you are part of this defining movement. You are as important as I am because we both don’t know. We want to know, we
want to set standards.’

  ‘I thought the BBC was the standard,’ Abhishek interrupted. ‘At least, that’s what I was told during my elocution lessons.’

  Samir laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Did they set Roopleena Bhattacharya after you? She is a mouthful and a handful.’

  He got up. ‘Look, I’m off to meet the CEO to plan your story. Wait for me here.’

  As Abhishek waited, he thought about Babloo. The old gangster had made his career. Abhishek merely had to breathe the man’s name, and the press and policemen jumped to attention. He wondered whether this sword he wielded would turn out to be double-edged; whether risking his friendship with Amir, Uday and perhaps even Mayank would be worth the story.

  Samir came back with Ashok Desai, interrupting Abhishek’s thoughts.

  He stood up. ‘Sit, sit,’ Ashok said, taking Samir’s chair.

  Abhishek’s boss sat beside him on the sofa.

  ‘So we break the story this evening at seven,’ Ashok announced. ‘Tomorrow morning, the newspapers will be forced to mention us in their reports, but they won’t be able to add much meat by then. Nor will the TV channels. And they’ll be running around confirming the story while we’re already screening follow-ups. Abhishek, Samir will tell you what to do. He says he is putting you in charge of the story and you have to milk it for as long as possible. This is good work, my friend. Congratulations.’ Ashok shook Abhishek’s hand solemnly.

  Through the glass panel, he saw the entire newsroom watching the proceedings. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘You shall indeed. Samir, let me know how things go. Later, boys.’

  Samir explained to Abhishek how to construct the first story. Using archive shots of Babloo and sound bytes of two former police commissioners, he was to create a voice-over with basic details. ‘Retired policemen will give bytes on anything. Here, call these numbers. It’s afternoon; let’s get the story in by five. We’ll talk about follow-ups later.’

  Samir watched Abhishek walk across the press room, avoiding eye contact with his colleagues. The senior newsman had decided to lend his personal weight to the story. The police, Samir knew, would deny the report. The other news channels would echo the police line and, if not supported, the boy would be brutally attacked. Samir had confirmed the story and would challenge Delhi Police. A good confrontation meant drama and a week of high ratings. This was going to be fun.

  M

  ayank was sitting with Uday when the story broke. It was just after 7 p.m. and the senior cop was lecturing him on the perils of marriage when the phone rang.

  ‘What? What are you saying?’ Uday sounded extremely agitated. ‘Okay, I’ll call you back.’ He slammed down the receiver and turned to Mayank. ‘Fucking News Today is running a story on fucking Babloo Shankar.’

  He looked for the remote control, finally locating it by shoving a pile of papers off his desk.

  It was the headline story: ‘Dreaded gangster Babloo Shankar is back in India.’ Mayank recognized Abhishek’s voice. He looked from the screen to his boss.

  ‘Must be Amir. Who else? Has to be him,’ Uday muttered and then shouted, ‘Motherfucker! But why? Why the hell would he do this to me?’

  The intercom buzzed and Uday lunged for it. The call, Mayank surmised from Uday’s quick change in tone, was from the commissioner. ‘Yes, sir. I’ve just seen it. I am on my way, sir.’

  A

  mir was at his desk when he saw the newsflash on his computer. It took him a while to register what his former protégé had done.

  Rahul rushed in enthusiastically. ‘Boss, have you seen what Abhishek is saying?’

  ‘Rahul, please knock before you come in next time, and tell everyone this – no barging into my office.’

  Uday’s phone was engaged. Amir rang Mayank. ‘I am on my way.’

  B

  abloo called Archana. His instructions were sharp and simple. Maintain regular lifestyle. There must be absolutely no sudden changes. She should not call; he would. She must keep an eye on Imran and ensure that he didn’t engage in loose talk. He would handle Salim Khan and all arrangements.

  By midnight, when every news channel and Internet portal was giving him top billing, either confirming his entry into Delhi or denying it, Babloo Shankar started to smile. This was turning out to be an unexpected bonanza.

  He called an associate. ‘Get me something on this television reporter, Abhishek Dutta. Who is he? How did he get this?’

  S

  amir shielded Abhishek from the immediate effects of breaking an aggressively contested story by putting him on follow-up reports: Why has Babloo come back? What is he after? The most plausible reason was to kidnap someone for cash. So what was Babloo’s modus operandi in the past? What should the rich and famous do to protect themselves? Who are Babloo’s competitors now?

  ‘Don’t let this story go, Abhishek,’ Samir asserted. ‘It ticks both the boxes: the public is interested and it is of public interest.’

  For the next week, Abhishek was kept incredibly busy. He worked from early morning till late into the night, and often slept over on an office couch. It was wonderful. The work was exciting and he was spurred on by Samir’s continuing support.

  Samir delivered a masterstroke on the third day, when three other English channels had taken a position against his story, promoting the official police version. During the 9 p.m. news bulletin, after several denials from the police commissioner, the country’s most respected news anchor had asked him, ‘Mr Pratap, can you guarantee that your deputy commissioner of the Crime Branch, Uday Kumar, did not send messages to Interpol that Babloo Shankar is in Delhi? If you are wrong, will you resign? For if we are wrong, I will.’

  The commissioner faltered; he mumbled excuses, and the battle was decisively won.

  The story remained in the headlines for over a week. ‘In these attention-deficit times of Twitter and Facebook, a remarkable achievement,’ the CEO wrote to Abhishek in an email.

  Abhishek had proved his point and finally, quietly, he gained admirers in the newsroom. In an environment where everyone made much of nothing, and loudly, here was a journalist who preferred to shy away from the limelight. The bosses had to push and cajole him to promote himself. It was a welcome change.

  There was to be a Republic Day party on the last day of January at Samir Saxena’s house to which Abhishek was invited. Rajiv Bose was not. Usually one to avoid pettiness of any sort, the blushing star of News Today couldn’t help ensuring that his colleague noticed the slight.

  18

  D

  elhi loves February. The month brings relief from the ice-cold winds that sweep through Tibet and Ladakh, via Kashmir and the hill stations that lie between the troubled valley and the Indian capital. The torrid summer months, the incessant power cuts, baking tarmac and frequent fires that engulf the city’s poorer parts, dry as a matchstick, are a while away. In between the severity of the winter and the ferocity of an angry sun god, there is festivity. The rich party on their penthouse rooftops; street kids dance at traffic lights to music tossed casually from passing cars. There are film and food festivals, literature and drama workshops. Delhi, screwed by the harshness of geography, rediscovers culture; people rise from the mediocrity of the daily grind and smile at the gyrating kid on the road. To egg her on, they pump up the volume. February allows Delhi to feel kind.

  Even the law enforcers give in to the weather and take time out to celebrate the annual Police Week, a moment to reach out to the public they purport to serve. The officers attend all-night poetry sessions in Chandni Chowk, distribute sweets to school children and, if the local booze shop owner has the misfortune of a case hanging over him, then whisky and rum are distributed to remind the public of the munificence of its uniformed men.

  One of the key features of the week, looked forward to by both parties, is the annual cricket match between the press and the police. Past enmities are washed away by the gin and tonic that flow all afternoon.


  Abhishek used the day to attempt a reconciliation with Uday. He managed only a handshake, but even that was a start.

  Commissioner Pratap turned out to be an excellent legspinner, and several of the police officers displayed similar age-defying skills, winning them the year’s contest.

  During the prize-giving ceremony, the commissioner was magnanimous enough to award the opponents with cricketing gear, bats, balls, sweaters and blazers, all procured by his men from a hapless manufacturer. The city’s pressmen, defenders of free speech and crusaders against injustice, accepted this largesse without a qualm. Those with school-going kids would have the opportunity to be generous that evening.

  O

  n 18 February, the final day of the Police Week, Commissioner Pratap stepped out onto the spotless lawns of his Akbar Road residence to cast an eye over the evening’s preparations. He was hosting a dinner for India’s high and mighty. The prime minister, home minister and Delhi’s lieutenant governor had all confirmed their presence.

  Winning the annual contest had rounded off nicely what Pratap felt had been a decent year overall, despite the difficult circumstances. In a city of unplanned and uncontrolled growth, where the black economy rivalled the legitimate, where politics and power were synonymous with crime, where the police were shackled by corrupt masters and human rights sharks, he felt that the statistics should earn him another year at the top. Manufacturing those numbers had involved a hell of a lot of burking, but one couldn’t have everything, Pratap reasoned. There had genuinely been a fall in murders, petty thefts and armed robberies. Besides kidnappings and rapes, most other categories remained constant. There had been no attentiongrabbing terrorist strikes or bomb blasts in railway carriages like in Mumbai, where his colleague and batchmate Commissioner T. Krishnan felt his days were numbered. Pratap permitted himself to feel cautiously relieved.