Today was like a good old Monday, when you plan for the week and get every story you wanted on day one. There was no blue feeling about the day. It was all bright and cheerful. Your sources call you early in the morning, when you are still in a jam packed train. You get your first quote while inside the cab and when you reach office your other source confirms. You feel that adrenalin rushing.
You stop for a while, look around, walk like James Bond on the arched corridors of your swanky office, chew the coffee stirrer in a rustic Hindustani style and sip the coffee, again with English sophistication.
You are on a roll and think you can do things the way you like. You quit a relaxed discussion on the canteen table and suddenly rush to your desk. "I have to file the story soon." Just another confirmation needed. And yeah! You get the story.
Too much on my plate, but good it’s ready to be eaten. These are happy days for a good reporter. Years of source building, meandering in the dilapidated alleys, where most of your sources lived and still do. And it’s only on days like this you get a big, breaking story at the comfort of your air-conditioned surroundings and a few phone calls.
The story that you live through the day is like a movie, where you are the chief character. Its box office success depends on the follow-ups the competitors do, the publications that carry it. When you know you are being chased. It’s a very good feeling. Very celebrity feeling.
The good day ended. Time to go through the travel travails. You come out of the palm tree planted neat multi-storied office campus to meet eyes with the revelers of a couple of Durga Puja processions through Parel village.
No taxis to be found you have to walk fifteen minutes change two trains to reach home. What you do? I joined the revelers. Danced to the tune of popular Hindi numbers like bidi jalaile, munni badnaam hui.
I drank some buttermilk supposed to be laced with bhang. I danced for a while and felt melting into the sea of people, who actively led me to the Currey Road station, which always sounds like an Oxymoron to me.
The dhol-beats, genuine excitement and prayers it seems invited the Rain Gods at a short notice and look at me I was completely drenched before reaching station. I, however, discovered I was walking properly and was in my senses. Seems the buttermilk was pure.