Under a ‘no smoking’ sign, Radhakrishan struck and match and lit a cigarette. Drawing deep puffs and blowing out the resultant smoke in billowing circles, he sat ponderingly. On a scratch pad he wrote, “From Nepal, with Love. The Last Telegram ever sent”. He reread the line several times before scratching it out. Somehow, the title didn’t capture the essence of the moment as poignantly as he felt it. Perhaps he should question a few more people and wait for Dhane to arrive. He threw away the cigarette stub and trampled it underneath his foot.
Just this morning he was feeling down and didn’t want to go to the office. It had been raining since last night and he would have spent the entire day under the blanket if only he hadn’t run out of his annual leave days. After reaching the office grudgingly, he had contrived to take a half-day leave. Filling up the leave form, he entered the chief editor’s room for approval. Mr Mukherjee, chief editor of The Bhojpura Times, was a difficult man with a short temper. His habitual traits were further accentuated by his short stature, his thick moustache and a frown that he invariably wore on his forehead. It being a slow news day, Editor Sahib was in foul mood, and seeing Radhakris-han’s leave request form made him extremely agitated.
“Damn it! Do you have any idea what day today is?” Mr Mukherjee yelled on top of his voice.
“No,” Radhakrishan replied searchingly.
“Idiots. I can’t believe I am surrounded by an ocean of incompetence. You guys should be ashamed of calling yourselves journalists. When I was your age I could sniff out breaking news from the depth of the Ganges,” Mukherjee scolded Radhakrishan as he stood silently.
“Today is July 14. Doesn’t ring a bell, does it?” he asked condescendingly.
Heaving a sigh of disappointment and exasperation, he spoke slowly and peremptorily, “Well, today is the last day they will ever deliver a telegram. All the news agencies are scouring the entire country to get hold of the last wire. I have come to learn, from an insider at BSNL, that a wire has been dispatched to one of the coal mines at Jharia from Raxaul. Someone needs to go there and get on top of it! Do you read me?”
“Well, Jharia is ten kilometers away, and it’s raining. Can’t Shivaram go there instead,” Radhakrishan remarked
“No! He is interviewing Sweta Sinha this afternoon,” Mukherjee rebuked.
Radhakrishan was at a loss for words and acquiescently, he set out on his task. He cursed his luck. “Damn that Shivaram, lucky bastard! Always gets a chance to talk to beautiful actresses while I am stuck with some stupid work or another. Now where the hell among all those coal mines am I going to find the recipient?” he wondered.
He caught the local bus to Jharia that took him along the banks of the Damodar River that had swelled with the heavy monsoon rains and was carrying a load of sediments as it ravaged downstream towards the east to meet up with Hooghly. Meanwhile, the road—built during colonial times, with the sole purpose of funneling out coal—had deteriorated heavily in recent times, and the pot holes made life for passengers inside the overcrowded bus miserable. Finally, after dreadful journey upstream that lasted for almost two hours, he reached the coal mines of Sitanala.
As he stepped out of the bus, the acrid air, drenched in musk and coal fumes, welcomed him. All around him lay brazen land with sparse vegetation. On both sides of the graveled road stood vistas of several wooden shacks with tinned roof that sold daily comestibles. Far off to the right stood an ugly barrack painted with lime that sheltered labourers at night. As he surveyed the landscape, he noticed that where an entire hill must have once stood, there now was a cirque, a result of rampant open-pit mining. Meanwhile, several people were scurrying down the road while a few children were playing with rubber tires. After enquiring a bit, Ramakrishan walked down the road towards the left, across the causeway, and into the heart of the coal mine. Under the fronds of a few palm trees lay a large, derelict culvert that was being used as a makeshift supervisor’s office. On the opposite side, towards the east, a fire was burning signifying men at work.
Inside the culvert, on a wooden chair, a middle-aged man in an unkempt brown shirt with blisters on his face was snoozing. His sudden unannounced arrival frightened the man out of his slumber. Sensing the unease Radhakrishan spoke politely, “Hello. I am Radhakrishan from The Bhojpura Times. Are you Mr Chaurasiya, the supervisor?”
Mr Chaurasiya was a nervous man. Since last month’s fire inside the pit he had become weary of strangers. Further, just two days ago, his office had been inundated by floodwaters, and since then, he had had to relocate the entire office under the culvert till the monsoon abated. He was worried that his ineptness might cause him to lose the job. And besides, the place was surrounded with stoolpigeons. A sudden appearance by a journalist made him exceptionally uncomfortable. “Yes, that’s me. May I know what business you have here?” he asked suspiciously. Radhakrishan explained to him the purpose of his visit. His reassuring words calmed the supervisor’s nerves and the latter became more forthcoming.
“Yeah, a telegram meant for Dhan Bahadur arrived just few hours ago. He is still under the shaft. If you want me to, I can open it.” Rubbing both his palms Chaurasyia—much like a hostess trying to please her guest—spoke with a twinkle in his eyes.
“That’s illegal!” Radhakrishan rebutted.
“Of course. It’s not our practice to intrude in our employees’ personal matters. We are family you know. But since you are a busy man, I thought perhaps we could take a detour.”
“No. You can tell me a little bit about Dhan Bhadur instead,” Radhakrishan asserted.
“A good man. Came from Nepal a few years ago. Dexterous at work. By the way, the news will carry a blurb about all the fine work we are doing, right?” Chaurasiya tried to chang the subject.
“Well it all depends on how interesting the story is”.
“In that case, I will call Min Bahadur, his close friend,” Chaurasiya yelled at Tannoy
Min Bahadur, who was wearing a cast on his left arm, was a small man with quick glances. At first he was apprehensive about spewing out his friends’ details, but upon discovering that the newspaper was writing a story about him, he became quite garrulous. He narrated how he and Dhane arrived in Sitanala 10 years ago after deserting the army during the Maoist conflict.
“Dhane and I are like brothers. You know. He loves his family, especially his wife and son, and calls them every fortnight and sends money back home regularly,” he spoke excitedly.
“His wife...so beautiful, and he always carries her picture around. Of course, that was until a few weeks ago when we had that accident and he lost the picture and I broke my arm.”
Mr Chaurasiya cleared his throat to interrupt the deliberation and interjected, “Min Bahadur! Journalist Shaib doesn’t want to hear about your arm or an accident.”
Turning back to Radhkrishan, Chaurasiya spoke menially - “Well Shaib, we take good care of our labourers. We are sensitive regarding their family, and charge them very low rates as far as long distance calls are concerned.”
Radhakrishan dismissed Chaurasiya’s remark, “Does he often get telegram?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Minbahadur replied.
“Let’s wait for Dhane to arrive,” Radhakrishan spoke disinterestedly.
Dhane arrived about half an hour later with dark smudges all over his face. News had spread all over the mine about him being the recipient of the last telegram, and a crowd welcomed him with fanfare. Excitedly, he opened the telegram, and curiously, everyone peered into the wire.
The telegram read “Yours wife eloped. Stop. Son is sick. Stop. Come Home. Stop.”
Upon reading the message, Dhane fainted and everyone started to fan him. Meanwhile, the incident manifested into a gold mine in the offing for Radhakrishan. He saw the narratives as writ in the heavens, a tragic story that consigned the glory of the telegram. All of a sudden, all his disinterestedness disappeared, and he felt enthused by the prospect of writing one fine piece that would certainly guarantee his arrival as a fine writer. ‘Maybe his story will be turned into a movie script, maybe he himself will write the screen play, maybe he will win the National Award.’ The possibilities were endless. He immediately rewrote the title “Missive of Labour’s Love Lost” and dialled Mr Mukherjee’s number to inform him of the scoop.
Mukherjee, at the other end, spoke bluntly, “Jack ass! Still following yesterday’s news! Don’t you follow tweets? Rahul Gandhi received the last telegram, sent to him by a well wisher. Get out of there, immediately. I need you to cover a strike at the municipality.” And he hung up.
Holding the crumpled paper and his pen, RadhaKrishan looked lost as Dhane came back to consciousness.
- Dipesh Karki
No comments :
Post a Comment