"The historic locale of Mumbai’s Fort area bears a languid look in the afternoon. The mad morning march of office-goers now transforms into leisure walks on sun-baked lanes, as majority of the white-collared class catch their grub at Udipi lunch homes. While a good population flock like flies to Nepalese-run red-painted Chinese stalls, the Malayalee joints are equally busy with extra helpings of curries thrown over sullen mountains of rice at regular intervals. Mobilized through a parading army of sweat-soaked waiters, they epitomize the restaurant’s generosity extended to regular customers"
Done with his hurried noon meal, Shibu walked down the street, trying to get his sequence right. He was already happy with the effect. Hope this would pass for a story today. But the next moment, he was jittery.
No more of your stupid features– Gazdar had warned.
Gazdar – the man-eater editor of his tabloid. If Gazdar’s ultimatum today was any indication, Shibu had very little time. The current trend was dead against him. Young guys and girls came in dozens everyday in strange, skimpy outfits to cover the city on peanut stipends, most of them showered with fantastic pocket monies by obliging dads and moms. Shibu got a little over four grands for his journalistic masquerade. That, the management now thought, was far from cost-effective. Besides, there was little about his stories that furthered the paper’s cause. Crime, Law, Hospital, Politics, Sports, Art and Entertainment – all beats had owners. And Shibu was left with Human Interest stories – with inhuman deadlines. He came back to his desk in the remote corner incensed by the strong smell of the adjoining urinal leaking to glory.
Gazdar had left a Post –it Note stuck on a glossy paperback. For Review Today. Must.
Asshole, Shibu swore under his breath, savoring the glorious view of the enticing red waistband of Miss Roshni’s panties as she bent over to pick the bulky thesaurus from the rack below. Roshni, Rosh to Gazdar, the cute skinny creature who sincerely believed she spun mega revolutions with her byline. Shibu looked for a free terminal. Luckily, that fatso Sunder was out, the rebel with a pause. Madly in love with his South Bombay scoops and his UK Mass media degree. Fuck them all.
Shibu opened a new Wordstar file on the ancient machine. They would just not go for better software and machines. All they want removed is men.He looked at the title. “Mumbai – Gust of Hope” By Salomi Gidwani. Good lord! Another of those disgusting half-baked travelogues “Replete with irritating personal memoirs, the book hardly reflects the ethos of a dead-yet-alive city. A hasty analysis of earmarked chronicles – the sketch is………”
“Shibu…” Gazdar’s voice was unmistakable. But not the tone.
“Let’s have coffee,” He proposed, grinning from ear to ear.
“You remember your report on malnutrition deaths last week. Seems Channel XI covered it in their morning capsule, with due credit to us for breaking the news. Now that it’s boiling hot, makes sense to cover it in depth. You leave tonight. Get some advance from Accounts. Visit at least five six tribal pockets and yes…I want more pictures -morgues, hospitals, naked children – get going”
He left the room and before the door banged, he barked “Don’t forget the review, it’s urgent”
How about this God-sent lease of life? Six tribal pockets meant 15 days of tour in the least. Away from office. Amidst an unsuspecting lot of tribals – how would they ever know their fake saviour is as helpless? The chai-wala was quite shocked to see a smiling Shibu. What’s wrong with him today, he wondered.
Sipping tea from the weathered cup, Shibu turned back to the screen. The keys on the board slaughtered the old file with the detached flair of a professional killer. A new file lay open before him with a dancing cursor begging to move. Shibu soared high on the wings of a newfound hope.
“Despite being another personal sketch of a city much explored, it’s heartening to find a refreshing gust of narrative style in this racy account…In less than 500 pages, there’s barely an aspect of the city’s culture that the author has not touched upon. Ms Gidwani’s catalogue of this throbbing metropolis is.........
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