2.30am. Opposite VT Station. In the TOI parking bay.
I am one of the last to leave today. Waiting for my cab.
A youngster walks by, disappears into the shadows. But in a moment, he is back.
Swagger. Drenched. Eccentric written on his face.
Catches this tired hack off guard with "Do you work for the Times of India?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Just had something on my mind. Have written it down. How can I get it published?"
"I am sorry, but what exactly?"
"Some thoughts."
"Sorry dude. Getting that published would be tough. Could have helped if it was a news story."
"Please hear me out. It is something about what I have noticed on the Marine Drive regularly."
My antenna's up. He pulls out a long notebook from his side bag. "Please read it. Won't take more than a few minutes."
I do. Its around two pages of his "thoughts" on the Victorias, the horses' plight, the horsemen's peaceful sleep and the government's ineptitude in helping out the equines. "Sameer," it says at the end.
I nod. "Sameer, I understand what you mean, but this doesn't qualify for publication."
"But why?" the dejection creeping in.
I manoeuvre to change the topic. "What do you do Sameer?"
"I was in Saudi for 1.5 years. Now I have been jobless for 1.5 years. Am looking to move to Singapore. But before that I'd want to try and shift careers."
"Where are you from?"
"I am from a place called Thalassery in Kerala."
I shift gears instinctively and ease into Malayalam. He is shocked. Holds his hand forth in relief. No more fumbling with the tongue, he must have thought.
I explain to him in Malayalam that The Times of India is a newspaper and opinions are welcome only from a select few. I notice a shift in body language.
"So you are saying you publish only news?"
"Yeah, mostly."
"What news?"
"I'm sorry...?"
"I don't find any news in your paper."
I am amused. He continues.
"There is absolutely nothing about Gaza."
I am even more amused. "Really?"
"Yeah. There is nothing about the invasion."
"Have you read the paper recently?"
"No I don't read newspapers."
"You don't read newspapers. And you think Times doesn't carry news about Gaza." I am staring.
"Where is the stuff about the cruelty? The occupation? The history of Israel?"
I continue to stare. I fold the notebook and return it to him. The cab fleet manager beckons. My car is ready.
"Good luck Sameer."
"Sure but whom should I mail if I want to get something published?"
For a moment I thought this was the chance to give vent to my irritation with my bosses. Should I let this guy loose on my boss, my super boss, the MD, the Jains?
After a brief pause, sanity prevails.
"Mail me Sameer. Will pass your "stuff" on to people concerned."
I pass him my official email ID to a profusion of gratitude. The same notebook.
Sameer blends into the shadows again.
As I get into the cab and begin my journey home, I notice the swagger, the sidebag.
Sameer, lost in thoughts.
I am one of the last to leave today. Waiting for my cab.
A youngster walks by, disappears into the shadows. But in a moment, he is back.
Swagger. Drenched. Eccentric written on his face.
Catches this tired hack off guard with "Do you work for the Times of India?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Just had something on my mind. Have written it down. How can I get it published?"
"I am sorry, but what exactly?"
"Some thoughts."
"Sorry dude. Getting that published would be tough. Could have helped if it was a news story."
"Please hear me out. It is something about what I have noticed on the Marine Drive regularly."
My antenna's up. He pulls out a long notebook from his side bag. "Please read it. Won't take more than a few minutes."
I do. Its around two pages of his "thoughts" on the Victorias, the horses' plight, the horsemen's peaceful sleep and the government's ineptitude in helping out the equines. "Sameer," it says at the end.
I nod. "Sameer, I understand what you mean, but this doesn't qualify for publication."
"But why?" the dejection creeping in.
I manoeuvre to change the topic. "What do you do Sameer?"
"I was in Saudi for 1.5 years. Now I have been jobless for 1.5 years. Am looking to move to Singapore. But before that I'd want to try and shift careers."
"Where are you from?"
"I am from a place called Thalassery in Kerala."
I shift gears instinctively and ease into Malayalam. He is shocked. Holds his hand forth in relief. No more fumbling with the tongue, he must have thought.
I explain to him in Malayalam that The Times of India is a newspaper and opinions are welcome only from a select few. I notice a shift in body language.
"So you are saying you publish only news?"
"Yeah, mostly."
"What news?"
"I'm sorry...?"
"I don't find any news in your paper."
I am amused. He continues.
"There is absolutely nothing about Gaza."
I am even more amused. "Really?"
"Yeah. There is nothing about the invasion."
"Have you read the paper recently?"
"No I don't read newspapers."
"You don't read newspapers. And you think Times doesn't carry news about Gaza." I am staring.
"Where is the stuff about the cruelty? The occupation? The history of Israel?"
I continue to stare. I fold the notebook and return it to him. The cab fleet manager beckons. My car is ready.
"Good luck Sameer."
"Sure but whom should I mail if I want to get something published?"
For a moment I thought this was the chance to give vent to my irritation with my bosses. Should I let this guy loose on my boss, my super boss, the MD, the Jains?
After a brief pause, sanity prevails.
"Mail me Sameer. Will pass your "stuff" on to people concerned."
I pass him my official email ID to a profusion of gratitude. The same notebook.
Sameer blends into the shadows again.
As I get into the cab and begin my journey home, I notice the swagger, the sidebag.
Sameer, lost in thoughts.
