Chapter 2

The quaint little platform was deserted at this early hour except for Malay, a tea vendor and a wet baby monkey, which had lost its way perhaps. Malay stretched his lanky frame on the bench, his clothes were drenched and the cut on his forehead kept throbbing. He was thankful for the tea vendor, the strongly brewed tea was just what he needed. The great Indian monsoon had ensured that his train would be delayed by another four hours. His rucksack had gotten wet on the way to the station. He opened it to make sure the documents were still dry. The plastic covers had done a good job in keeping the papers safe, everything else was damp. He squirmed at the thought of soggy packs of gajak stuffed between his dirty clothes. Nirmala made sure he never left Ittara without some snacks for his journey back to Kolkata. Her determination veered on stubbornness sometimes.


It was a similar rainy morning in June, a few years back when Malay announced to his parents his resolve to go into the publishing business. 'I want to start a new magazine, the market is just right now' he had declared. His father was the Principal Secretary - Urban Development in their small town and his mother was a professor of Hindi at the Hill University. They had expected Malay to follow in his father's footsteps or at the very least to complete his engineering education and get a comfortable job.

Malay's mother did little to hide her dismay. In fact she had launched into a full blown tirade punctuated with tearful pleas to the Gods. Malay had trouble discerning whether she was more angry at him or at the huge bevy of Hindu deities. He could not help chuckling when she complained about the best quality Kashmiri apples she had them offered them for twenty-five long years and this was all she got in return. His insolence further infuriated her and she warned Malay in an ominous tone that a profession in publishing was not as easy as being the editor of his college newsletter.

The college newsletter was indeed where it had all begun. The biweekly had very little to do with news but had a significant contribution in the mud slinging game going on between different factions in college. As publisher and Editor in Chief, Malay was actively pursued by the leaders of each faction - the north Indians, the locals, the Gujjus, just about everyone. People wanted to be in his good books. Malay basked in the attention and the freebies were an added incentive. He decided that it was time to take it a degree further and get into the real world. Rub shoulders with the who's-who of the country and be sought after by them. At the age of twenty one confidence and self-belief were certainly not in short supply. He had a flair for language and could add his own twists to news to get the reactions he desired. The heady feeling of power was intoxicating, a much better high than the marijuana from Manjunath's shop could ever give.

Malay had grown up watching ministers and other dignitaries at close quarters. He was not tongue tied in front of them, he was not awe stuck by celebrity like most of his friends. But it was not political figures and current issues that Malay sought to pursue. His aspirations lay in reams of glossy pages with stories about the rich and famous, scoops about the glamor world, the possibilities were endless. This, wisely enough, he did not reveal to his parents. He did nothing to dispute the general assumption that his magazine would be of a political nature.

Malay's father - Haridas Bogate, assumed a more tolerant face, encouraging even, he had not forgotten his own frantic attempts at poultry farming in his early days. His initial resolve and enthusiasm had melted in the face of failure. Malay would be no different he supposed.
Besides he was a bureaucrat, frantic breast beating was the bastion of the politicos, his forte lay in having alternate plans ready for execution. He figured that Malay had about five years to dabble in the publishing business. After that hiatus he would surely be able to lure Malay back into the folds of bureaucracy, he would welcome the prodigal son. That would still give Malay another five years of time to crack the IAS.


Malay smiled ruefully as he thought of that day. He pulled out his pocket book and under the lines
"La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos" he scribbled his own version
"The same rain washes the same earth.
We, we who were, are the same no longer."