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.
