Getting to work post lunch is unacceptable on a Monday morning at the offices of Mumbai Tasveer, a substandard tabloid masquerading as a local newspaper, for which I cover the entertainment and culture beat. Mumbai Tasveer is run by its third-generation owner Amay Prabhakar, a raging maniac who would be in prison for unwarranted profanity if he weren’t shielded within the confines of this family bastion. The publication employs a small staff of ten, mostly third-generation family loyalists, and relies heavily on stringers and media agencies to fill up space. As I take my seat at the desk, I am informed by my senior colleague Deshmukh that Prabhakar has been asking for me all morning.
He raises his voice the moment I step into his cabin. “You sonofabitch, where the fuck have you disappeared since Friday? I sent you to cover a fucking store launch and you got wasted on free booze instead? Where the fuck is my story, you freeloading bitch?” Then he gets up from his chair and gives me his customary hug and flattering smile. “How much did you drink, benchod?” Classic Prabhakar tactics. Keep them guessing. Play in the grey areas. Obfuscate.
I sit in the chair across the table and confess, “More than I should have, boss.”
He looks at me, then checks his phone and looks back up again. “Listen, I know you’re heartbroken and all that, but you can’t fucking disappear like this, chief.”
I nod my head in agreement. “I may have to vacate my house also soon.”
This is uneasy territory for Prabhakar and he changes tack. “You need to figure your personal shit out. Now, where’s my fucking story, chief?”
“It’ll be filed by the evening, don’t worry.”
“I want it filed asap, you get me? There’s some other shit coming up.”
Silence is the only weapon that can intimidate an entitled prick like him. A slave driver par excellence, he makes me do the work of three people for the price of a halfwit. His only concern is making enough money to fly first class to Bangkok or Dubai every month and sample the finest Russian goods. Finally, his desperation breaks, and as he opens his gob to speak, I interject. Timing is everything with this dude.
“There’s actually something I wanted to discuss with you, Amay.”
That stops him in his tracks. “What? Don’t tell me you want to leave, because I’ll fuck your motherfucking happiness, chief. There’s no chance you can leave me now. We have the digital edition coming up in a few months and I need you, benchod. If you need a raise, we can discuss it over drinks at the club. Whatever your fucking problem is, save it for another day, chief, because right now I ain’t got no time to fix your motherfucking personal shit.”
At this point, I feel like giving him a whack to quieten him down but take the high road instead, and lay my cards on the table.
“I need a sabbatical, Amay. I’m burning out. I need to do my own thing for a while.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I need to figure it out. My personal shit.”
He goes back to his phone, and I say, “I read a very interesting article about an Indian rock band from the 1970s. I’m thinking of following that story.”
Amay Prabhakar stares at me as if I were an alien who has just descended from Mars. Then he breaks his silence, speaking very slowly, as if he were addressing a lunatic. “Have you gone off your fucking rocker this weekend, Nirvana? Were you tripping on acid and watching Searching for Sugar Man? Do you think you’ve got some kind of esoteric signal from the great powers of the universe that have revealed your destiny in one fuck-all divine moment of truth?”
I smile and he blows his lid, bouncing off his chair, shouting at the top of his voice. “Do you think you’re Cameron fucking Crowe and this is Rolling Stone magazine? No, wait. Do you think you’re Hunter S Thompson and you’ll do a Fear and Loathing in Bharat Mata? Do you even know how much fear and loathing there really is in this great country of ours?”
Silence is my only friend. Prabhakar leans in towards me, his face inches away from mine. I can smell the breakfast poha and the overpowering elaichi of umpteen cutting chais on his breath.
“It will never happen in Mumbai Tasveer, you hear me? This is a serious newspaper covering local events that matter. That make a difference in people’s lives. My grandfather spent his life fighting for our freedom, my father spent his life fighting for the rights of mill workers and I am fighting every day to keep this fuck-all business alive. And I won’t let free thinkers like you kill it, benchod!”
He finally sits back in his chair, satisfied with his performance. We both know that the entire office will be on its toes the rest of the week. His peon, Balaji, pokes his head inside to ask if we want chai and is summarily told to fuck off. It’s a practised charade that deserves an award for the longest-running improv skit in Dadar. So I continue, “I read an amazing article in a back issue of Junior Standard about the India Beat ’70. I think there’s a treasure trove of stories there and a readership to be cultivated. Wouldn’t something like that be great for the launch of the digital edition?”
He considers what I have said, then says, “You may be right, chief, but the digital edition is nowhere on the horizon.”
“But didn’t you just say –”
“And I don’t have the resources for your alternative crap at the moment.” He pulls out a document from a file and flings it at me.
“Here’s something that will excite your creative sperm.”
The document is a press release for an upcoming concert that marks the comeback of ’90s Indi-pop artiste Anica Chopra, singer of the legendary earworm “Sexy Sajana”.
Knowing very well my utter disdain for her ilk of auto-tuned pseudos, Prabhakar continues in a lighter vein, “She has a press conference at Lands End this evening and you have an exclusive with her. They’re paying us very well, so you better do a good piece. Now, get your ass moving, chief.” I let it sink in for a moment. The thought of free booze at Lands End motivates me, and I leave the office without bothering to say a word to any of my nervous colleagues.
Excerpted with permission from The Extraordinary Life of Max Bulandi, Sidharth Singh, HarperCollins India.
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