Chapter 2: Reporter Ka Shak (The Reporter's Suspicion)

Three days after the fireflies went dark in Mulshi, Tarun Gokhale slammed the door of his rented flat on Linking Road in Bandra and took the stairs two at a time — the two-at-a-time being the particular speed of a reporter who had been woken at 5:47 AM by his editor's phone call and whose editor's phone call contained the two words that made reporters move fast: "breaking story."

Tarun was twenty-eight. Twenty-eight and employed at the Mumbai Herald — the Herald being one of the city's remaining broadsheets, the remaining being the particular distinction in an era when broadsheets were dying and the dying produced the environment that Tarun worked in: understaffed, underpaid, overworked, the trifecta of Indian journalism in the digital age.

His flat was a 1BHK in the particular Bandra configuration that real estate agents called "compact" and that residents called "small" — the small being: a bedroom that doubled as a living room, a kitchen that tripled as a dining room and a storage area, and a bathroom where the shower's spray reached the toilet. The Mumbai flat. The 1BHK that every twentysomething journalist in Mumbai knew as home because the knowing-as-home was the financial reality: journalists' salaries and Mumbai rents existed in the particular relationship that economists called "inverse" and that residents called "painful."

The rickshaw to the Herald's office in Lower Parel took twenty-two minutes — the twenty-two being fast for Mumbai, the fast being: 5:47 AM traffic, the pre-rush-hour window that was the city's gift to early risers. The rickshaw's meter showing forty-three rupees, the forty-three being the fare that Tarun paid without receipt because the without-receipt was the rickshaw transaction's particular informality.

The Herald's newsroom was chaos. The chaos being the organised variety — reporters at desks, editors on phones, the particular hum of a newsroom processing a story that was large enough to require the entire staff and that the entire-staff requirement was the story's size indicator: the bigger the story, the more people in the room before 7 AM.

Raghav Lancaster — editor-in-chief, fifty-three, the particular breed of Indian editor who had survived the print-to-digital transition by being indispensable and whose indispensability was: knowing everyone, remembering everything, maintaining the particular editorial instinct that no algorithm could replicate.

"Tarun. Mere office mein. Abhi." Raghav — the command delivered while walking, the walking-command being the editor's particular efficiency: movement and instruction simultaneously.

Tarun. My office. Now.

Raghav's office was glass-walled — the glass-walls being the newsroom's panopticon, the panopticon allowing Raghav to see the newsroom and the newsroom to see Raghav and the seeing being the mutual accountability.

"Raat ko kya hua pata hai?" Raghav began. Do you know what happened last night?

"Editor sahab, 5:47 pe phone aaya. Abhi tak chai bhi nahi pee." Sir, I got the call at 5:47. Haven't even had chai yet.

"Chai baad mein. Sun." Raghav turned his monitor. The monitor showing — a wire service report. The report from PTI (Press Trust of India), timestamped 4:23 AM:

MASS BIRD DISAPPEARANCE REPORTED ACROSS WESTERN GHATS. MULTIPLE DISTRICTS REPORT SIMULTANEOUS CESSATION OF BIRD ACTIVITY. FOREST DEPARTMENT INVESTIGATING.

"Birds gayab ho gaye?" Tarun — the question that was the processing, the processing being: birds disappearing was a story but the "simultaneous" was the word that made it a big story. Simultaneous meant coordinated. Coordinated meant: not random.

Birds disappeared?

"Sirf birds nahi. Pune district se report aayi hai ki fireflies bhi gayab — teen din pehle. Kolhapur se report — frogs silent. Ratnagiri se — fishing boats report no dolphins in the usual areas. Sab ek saath."

Not just birds. Report from Pune district — fireflies disappeared three days ago. Kolhapur report — frogs silent. Ratnagiri — fishing boats report no dolphins. All at once.

Tarun sat down. The sitting being — the sitting was the reporter's particular response to a story that was larger than the standing-position could process. Large stories required sitting because sitting was the posture of: attention, concentration, the body's resources redirected from standing to thinking.

"Ek saath matlab?" What do you mean 'all at once'?

"Matlab within the same 72-hour window. Fireflies first — three days ago. Then frogs. Then birds. Now dolphins. Pattern descending — insects, amphibians, birds, mammals. Taxonomic order. Kisi ne notice kiya."

Within the same 72-hour window. Fireflies first. Then frogs. Then birds. Now dolphins. Pattern descending — insects, amphibians, birds, mammals. Taxonomic order. Someone noticed.

Tarun's reporter-instinct activated. The instinct being the particular neural pathway that journalism developed: the pathway that connected "pattern" to "story" to "investigation" in the rapid sequence that produced: the urge to pursue.

"Kaun notice kiya?" Who noticed?

"Ek ecology professor. Savitribai Phule Pune University. Naam — Bhushan Kulkarni. Usne kal Forest Department ko email kiya pointing out the taxonomic sequence. Forest Department ne PTI ko forward kiya because they didn't know what to do with it. PTI ne wire kiya. Main tujhe de raha hoon."

An ecology professor. Savitribai Phule Pune University. Name — Bhushan Kulkarni. He emailed the Forest Department yesterday pointing out the taxonomic sequence. Forest Department forwarded to PTI because they didn't know what to do with it. PTI wired it. I'm giving it to you.

"Mujhe? Ecology beat mera nahi hai." Me? Ecology isn't my beat.

"Ecology beat kisi ka nahi hai. Isliye tujhe de raha hoon. Tu general assignment pe hai — yeh general enough hai. Aur tu achha likhta hai. Yeh story ko achhe writer ki zaroorat hai, beat reporter ki nahi."

Ecology isn't anyone's beat. That's why I'm giving it to you. You're on general assignment — this is general enough. And you write well. This story needs a good writer, not a beat reporter.

The compliment embedded in the assignment — the compliment that editors gave when the assignment was difficult and the difficult required motivation and the motivation required: acknowledgment.

Tarun took the assignment. The taking being: the acceptance that changed his trajectory, the trajectory that had been "general assignment reporter at mid-tier Mumbai broadsheet" and that was now: "reporter investigating the simultaneous disappearance of wildlife across the Western Ghats."

He spent the morning on the phone. The phone being — the phone was the reporter's primary tool, the tool that connected the reporter to sources and the sources being: the people who knew things.

Call 1: Forest Department, Pune Division. "Haan, reports aa rahe hain. Multiple range officers reporting reduced wildlife activity. We're monitoring. No official statement yet." The bureaucratic response — the response that said "we know but we don't know what to say."

Call 2: Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS). "We've received reports from our field observers. Unusual patterns. We're compiling data. Can you call back next week?" The scientific response — the response that said "we need time to process."

Call 3: Dr. Bhushan Kulkarni, Savitribai Phule Pune University. The call that connected after three rings — the three-rings being fast for a professor, the fast suggesting: the professor was waiting for calls, the waiting being the state of a man who had sent an email to the Forest Department and who expected the email to produce responses.

"Haan, Tarun Gokhale, Mumbai Herald. Dr. Kulkarni, aapne Forest Department ko email kiya tha — taxonomic sequence ke baare mein?" Yes, this is Tarun Gokhale, Mumbai Herald. Dr. Kulkarni, you emailed the Forest Department — about the taxonomic sequence?

"Haan. Aapko kaise pata chala?" The surprise in the voice — the surprise of a professor who expected bureaucratic silence and received journalistic contact. Yes. How did you find out?

"PTI wire. Sir, kya main aapse mil sakta hoon? Yeh phone pe discuss karna mushkil hai." PTI wire. Sir, can I meet you? This is difficult to discuss on the phone.

The pause. The pause being: the professor's calculation — the calculation that professors performed when journalists called: is this reporter serious or sensational? Will the story be accurate or clickbait? The calculation requiring: judgment, the judgment based on: voice, questions, the particular tone that seriousness produced.

"Kal aa sakte ho? Campus pe. Mera office Botany Department mein hai. Room 320." Can you come tomorrow? On campus. My office is in the Botany Department. Room 320.

"Kal aata hoon. Subah?" I'll come tomorrow. Morning?

"Gyaarah baje. Main tab free hota hoon." Eleven o'clock. I'm free then.

"Done."

Tarun hung up. The hanging-up being: the first step of the investigation, the investigation that the hanging-up initiated because the investigation began not with the meeting but with the appointment, the appointment being the commitment and the commitment being: the reporter's particular contract with the story — I will pursue this, I will follow the leads, I will find what is happening.

He wrote the first story that afternoon. The story being: 800 words, front page of the next morning's Herald, headline:

WILDLIFE VANISHES ACROSS WESTERN GHATS: EXPERTS BAFFLED BY SIMULTANEOUS DISAPPEARANCES

The story that named Bhushan Kulkarni as the professor who had identified the taxonomic pattern. The naming being: the connection, the connection between the reporter and the source that the naming established publicly and that the publicly-established connection was the beginning of what would become: a partnership.

That evening, Tarun sat in his Bandra flat eating Maggi — the Maggi being the Mumbai journalist's dinner: two-minute noodles that took four minutes to make and that the four-minutes were the only cooking Tarun's schedule permitted. The Maggi eaten from the pot because the eating-from-the-pot was the efficiency that living alone in a 1BHK produced: fewer dishes, less washing, more time for the story.

He read his own article on his phone. The reading being: the reporter's particular habit — read your own work after publication, the after-publication reading being the assessment: did I get it right? Did I capture the strangeness? Did the reader feel what I felt?

The strangeness being: the fireflies stopping simultaneously. The frogs going silent. The birds disappearing. The dolphins absent. The taxonomic sequence — insects, amphibians, birds, mammals — descending through the animal kingdom as if something was moving through the natural world and the moving was: systematic.

Tarun set down the Maggi pot. The setting-down being: the reporter's particular moment of clarity, the clarity being: this was not a one-day story. This was not a 800-word front-page piece. This was: the story. The capital-T, capital-S story that every reporter waited for — the story that was large enough to define a career and whose defining was the reporter's ambition and the ambition being: real, urgent, the particular hunger that journalism ran on.

He picked up his phone. Called Raghav.

"Raghav sahab, yeh story ek din ki nahi hai. Mujhe time chahiye. Aur Pune jaana padega — Kulkarni se milna hai." This isn't a one-day story. I need time. And I need to go to Pune — to meet Kulkarni.

"Kitna time?" How much time?

"Pata nahi. Jab tak story khatam na ho." I don't know. Until the story is done.

The pause. The editor's pause — the pause that editors produced when reporters asked for open-ended time because open-ended time was the resource that newsrooms could not afford and the not-affording being: the financial reality. But the pause also being: the editor's instinct, the instinct that said: this story is worth the time.

"Ja. Lekin mujhe regular updates chahiye. Aur expenses ka bill rakhna." Go. But I need regular updates. And keep your expense receipts.

"Done."

Tarun hung up. Opened his laptop. Booked a Pune bus ticket — Neeta Travels, 7:00 AM, Dadar to Swargate, the booking being: the commitment made physical, the physical-commitment being: the bus ticket that said "I am going" and the going being: tomorrow.

He finished the Maggi. Washed the pot. Lay on his bed — the bed that was the flat's only bed, the only-bed being the 1BHK's particular limitation — and stared at the ceiling fan rotating above him, the rotating being the Mumbai flat's perpetual motion, the fan that never stopped because stopping the fan in Mumbai's humidity was surrender and surrender was not permitted.

Something was happening in the Western Ghats. Something that made fireflies stop and frogs go silent and birds disappear and dolphins vanish. Something that moved through the natural world in taxonomic order — the order being: too precise to be random, too simultaneous to be coincidental.

Tarun was going to find out what.