Fiction: Two journalists dive into the murky waters of a young woman’s murder case in Delhi

At the Delhi Daily, the newsroom had come alive with the arrival of the many editors, feature writers, ad executives, designers, photographers and reporters who made up the staff. Among them all, Jaskiran was trying to fathom enough enthusiasm to begin writing yet another “soft-news” story. This one was about a local school’s fundraising drive to buy new textbooks to replace the outdated and inaccurate editions they had possessed for over thirty years. She sighed heavily, almost in defeat, when a burst of laughter behind her provided a welcome distraction.

Turning around, she found the source of the laughter to be a small gathering of her colleagues. In the centre of the huddle was Rajesh, one of the junior reporters. He was triumphantly holding up the day’s paper that displayed his name in bold type on the main story’s byline. His tall, athletic frame made him stand out in the crowd. He was animatedly regaling them with the story of how he landed the scoop.

A swell of anger rose within Jaskiran before simmering into resentment. Of course, Rajesh makes the cover before me, Jaskiran thought to herself. Rajesh was barely out of university, but his easy charm and confidence made him popular in the office. Jaskiran sighed again. Why do I have to work twice as hard for what others are simply handed? she thought bitterly.

Jaskiran was not the only one unhappy with her current situation. On the other side of the newsroom, the paper’s editor, Vinod Mukherjee, sat in his glass-panelled office cursing the faltering air-conditioning as he wiped his sweaty brow. Across from him sat Sabeena and the paper’s chief crime reporter, Sajid Chaudhury.

“Come, come, just tell me what it is you want?” said Vinod, visibly annoyed.

“What I want?” Sajid said as if the answer was obvious. “I need a crime reporter, Vinod. I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“You spend most of your time in back-alley bars. Why don’t you try and do some actual work? You could cover twice as many stories.”

“You mean publish twice as much spin!” Sajid hit back, offended. “That’s not real journalism. I need to go where the real stories are, not just repeat the PR that the police put out. You used to know this.”

Sajid’s words cut deep. Vinod silently looked out across the newsroom. He had once been an accomplished reporter and had worked his way up to the position of managing editor. That was over ten years ago. The move to a permanent desk job and away from the excitement of the field had softened him in more ways than one. During his time as a reporter, he had thrived on chasing down leads and shining a light in the darkest recesses of society. It had filled him with a drive and excitement he had failed to find anywhere else.

Now, accountable to a board of trustees and with his staff’s welfare and job security weighing heavy on his shoulders, the constraints of responsibility had slowly worn him down. With the passing years his appetite for inquisitive journalism and exclusives dampened, replaced by a need to meet quarterly targets, to not upset advertisers and to give the readers the sensationalist headlines they craved, which were often steeped in insinuation and hearsay and short on genuine investigation.

Almost as a direct result of his dwindling appetite for news, his waistline expanded as he searched to fill the void within him, consuming everything from the daily tiffin prepared by his wife to the gulab jamun, aloo tikki and other fried snacks from Delhi’s street stalls and, coveted most of all, the mutton shami kebabs from his favourite vendor in Chawri Bazaar. Wiping the last of the sweat from his brow, he looked at Sabeena. Young, ambitious and with a steely determination, Sabeena was a natural leader, and Vinod often found himself turning to her for advice. It was clear to anyone at the paper that she was destined for his chair, and in his most candid of moments, usually after downing a few pegs of whisky, he would admit to himself that she would probably run the paper better than he ever could.

“What do you think?” Vinod asked her. “Can you get someone from another paper?”

“I can get in touch with my people at the Times,” Sabeena replied. “There might be a junior crime reporter we could poach with an offer of a more senior position. I’ve also heard that Dilpesh Kulkarni at the Star no longer gets along with his editor, so he might be interested … but …”

Sabeena trailed off, prompting Vinod to ask, “What?”

“That could take weeks and won’t help us now,” she continued. “Also, it would lower morale among our reporters if we brought in someone new for a role that they are capable of filling.”

Vinod was sceptical. The crime rotation was a demanding role. Crime reporters were disliked not only by many in the police but also by the city’s criminals. He knew from experience that it required mental strength, self-belief and confidence to do the job. These were not qualities Vinod saw in his young staff, many of whom were fresh out of university.

Sabeena exhaled loudly, “Jaskiran should be reinstated.”

“Absolutely not,” Vinod cut her off before she could continue. “We have had this discussion. You were in this very office when she broke down in tears. How can I put her back into harm’s way?”

“That was an unfortunate incident, but it hasn’t frightened her away. She wants to be working in crime, and she deserves it. She’s hard-working and a great reporter. She’s been with us nearly five years, and I’m telling you, if we don’t show here some appreciation, another paper will gladly take her.”

“Sabeena, please,” said Vinod, holding out a hand to request her to stop. “I know all this, but I can’t. Her family came to see me, and I promised them that I wouldn’t put her in jeopardy again.”

“Her family doesn’t get to control her life; she is an adult,” Sabeena said, dismayed at what she was hearing.

“That may be true, but she is also my employee – and I decide the stories she works on,” said Vinod, in a manner that underlined the finality of his decision. Sabeena sat back with her arms folded, clearly angered.

Sajid, having no interest in office politics, decided to break the silence. “What about him?” He gestured across the newsroom to Rajesh, who was busy reenacting the events of yesterday’s accident to a group of amused colleagues, oblivious to the attention he was now receiving. “He made today’s front page, right?”

“He got lucky,” Sabeena retorted, still annoyed.

“Lucky is good,” said Sajid. “We need lucky reporters.”

“Rajesh is junior to Jaskiran,” said Sabeena. “He’s only been here a couple of years. Do you really want to elevate him to the crime rotation when he is so inexperienced? It will ruffle feathers among our other reporters who have been here longer,” Sabeena rebutted, looking at Vinod.

“Yes, but he is very confident and likeable,” said Vinod quickly. He was eager to shift the focus of the discussion away from Jaskiran. “He will be able to win people’s trust. What do you think, Sajid?”

“I’m willing to give him a chance,” said Sajid with a shrug.

“Right, that’s settled then,” Vinod said with a smile. He was happy that the matter was resolved so quickly. “Rajesh will help you with the crime beat.”

“And Jaskiran?” Sabeena asked, arching an eyebrow.

“We will find something for her, I promise, but not crime, please,” said Vinod. “It’s been said, and I have to agree, that the crime beat is not a place for a young woman.”

Sabeena bristled at the remark and stood to leave. “I disagree,” she said. “There’s no position in this company a woman couldn’t fill.” She gave him a piercing look before heading back to her desk. Sajid stifled a grin as he followed her, leaving Vinod awestruck and reaching for the jalebis.

Excerpted with permission from Delhi Vice, Balraj Juttla, Bloomsbury India.