That Chandan was a Bengali was only a third of his problem, his boss used to say. The other two thirds was his obnoxious self-righteousness and the fact that his father was a member of the very secret but not too dreaded RAW. His boss' conclusions had been drawn from an 'investigative' story that Chandan had gleaned from his father's files. The rather hysterical piece, so characterised his boss, about the activity of the Pakistani ISI in the socialist pink bastion of Jawaharlal Nehru University named two close friends of the Deputy News Editor. The two named gentlemen had decided to take their international politics studies into the realms of James Hadley Chase rather than John Le Carre. Over the months, they proceeded on their romantic belief about building bridges with Pakistan, a romance not too misplaced for a citizenry quite used to believing that no one is watching and the Big Brother was a figment of Orwellian imagination. The duo were duly visited by the RAW after their umpteenth visit for a cup of tea with a notorious Brigadier at the Pakistani High Commission. Years later, the hapless duo were named by Chandan, much to the wrath of his boss who had done his years in the same red bricked institution with the two RAW suspects as classmates.
As his colleagues would say, that was Chandan. There was a conspiracy everywhere and many were the stories that came gleaned from RAW files, part fact, much fiction like all intelligence reports anywhere in the world. But Chandan had lived on, championing causes like the eviction from Delhi of illegal immigrants from Bangladesh; total decimation of Kashmir militancy through a scorched earth policy, transmigration of populations around the borders to break border crossings. Dutifully doling out the latest intelligence leak, Chandan had more or less found a footing in the second oldest profession in the world, scribedom.
However, as he yet again faced the DNE with the cursor blinking rapidly along his 600-word story, Chandan felt the familiar dread and a choking rage at these liberal, quasi-fabian socialists who populated the media-dom in India and vitiated minds with namby-pamby secular tales and weak postures.
Chandan screwed up his courage as the DNE, a huge rotund man with a neck that threatened to swallow his face, turned to deliver judgement.
"This is tripe. Utter tripe. Next, you will tell me that Neil Armstrong did not land on the moon. Chandy, can we have less of this undiluted RAW claptrap. We are living in the 21st century. Wake up! It suits some bokachodas to file such nonsense to save their bloody asses. Don’t tell me nonsense about Kargil being a quid pro quo between Pakistan and India until someone blew the whistle… I say, have your father's outfit lost their fucking marbles."
Chandan scowled, turned red, his infamous temper surfacing. "This has nothing to do with my father."
The DNE heaved his massive girth out of the rickety wheeled chairs and flapped his hands around, "Hear! Hear! Chandy's got a scoop, man! Kargil was a fiasco because we fought it. Our RAW man here says that the government wanted to give the Pakis the fucking Kargil heights"
Chandan retreated to his chair amidst hoots, howls of delight and shouts of "Attaboy Chandy", "Go, get em boy", "Booker for you this year my boy!" "Chandy, your dad is working overtime!" Chandy knew from experience that the newsroom would come alive with the catcalls continuing till the morons exhausted themselves and returned to worry about deadlines and pages that were getting delayed. Returning to his desk, he pored miserably though the reports, hoping that he would get that magic uncontestable 'proof' which he would throw on the face of these scoundrels and march out to work in a newspaper that was a little more 'balanced'.
SinhaRoy, the DNE, having done the damage came whistling merrily past. "Hi, Chandy. Any more scoops?" he giggled as he strolled towards the News Editor’s room. No doubt, Chandan fumed, to share the latest episode. And also save his backside in case the story did find its way to any other publication and was used, Chandan thought. That gave him some satisfaction. After all the DNE had seen too many of Chandan's stories that he had spiked appearing in other publications and often becoming a scandal. As SinhaRoy would say, "Why blame Chandy. The spooks are determined to plant. If not here, somewhere else." But to Chandy it was not plants but truth that ultimately prevailed.
All of a sudden, he felt very miserable. He did not want to hang around even a minute. Quietly he packed his papers and logged out. He picked up the phone and spoke to Jose, his one sympathiser. "I am going. This is the pits. Just take over Jose."
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