Chapter 11: Megha

# Chapter 11: Megha

## The Segment

Trivedi-ji said no.

Trivedi-ji said no at 10:17 AM on a Thursday in his glass-walled cabin at the IBN MP office in Vijay Nagar, the cabin that overlooked the newsroom the way a watchtower overlooked a prison yard, the overlooking: Trivedi-ji's management style, the style: I can see you. I can see when you are working and when you are not. The glass is the surveillance.

"Megha, teen minute ka segment hai. Teen minute. Aur tu documentary bana rahi hai?"

Three minutes. Three-minute segment. And you're making a documentary?

"Sir, documentary alag hai. Apne time pe. Weekend pe. Channel se koi lena-dena nahi."

The documentary is separate. On my own time. Weekends. Nothing to do with the channel.

"Toh phir kya lena-dena hai mujhse?"

Then what does it have to do with me?

"Sir, segment mein, end mein: dukaan ka address dena hai. Scroll mein. 'Agar aap Ichha Deewar ke baare mein jaanna chahte hain toh yeh address hai.' Bas. Sirf address."

In the segment. At the end, I need to put the shop's address. In a scroll. "If you want to know about the Ichha Deewar, here's the address." That's all. Just the address.

Trivedi-ji leaned back in his chair, the chair that was executive chair, the revolving chair with the high back and the armrests and the pneumatic height adjustment that distinguished the producer's chair from the reporter's chair, the distinction: hierarchy's furniture, the furniture — rank.

"Address kyun? Tujhe pata hai ki agar hum address denge toh log jayenge? Aur agar log jayenge toh woh chai-wallah complaint karega ki humne uski dukaan mein bheed kar di? Oil ran warm over her fingers.

Why the address? Do you know that if we give the address, people will go? And if people go, the chai-wallah will complain that we crowded his shop? And if there's a complaint —

"Sir, chai-wallah ne khud request ki hai."

The chai-wallah himself requested it.

"Chai-wallah ne request ki hai?"

"Haan. Woh chahta hai ki log aayein. Woh chahta hai ki log deewar dekhein. Woh chahta hai ki log apni ichha likhein."

He wants people to come. He wants people to see the wall. He wants people to write their wishes.

"Aur donate karein?"

And donate?

The word. The word that Trivedi-ji had arrived at: the word that Megha had avoided, the word that she had carefully not spoken because the word "donate" changed the segment from journalism to fundraising and the changing was the thing that Trivedi-ji would object to and that Trivedi-ji was now objecting to.

"Donate optional hai, sir. Address se log aayenge. Kuch log chai peeyenge. Kuch log deewar dekhenge. Kuch log, haan, kuch log donate bhi karenge. Lekin segment mein donate ka koi mention nahi hoga. Sirf address."

Donation is optional. People will come from the address. Some will drink chai. Some will see the wall. Some. Yes, some will also donate. But there's no mention of donation in the segment. Just the address.

Trivedi-ji thought. The thinking — the thinking: calculation that television producers performed, the calculation —: what is the risk? What is the reward? What is the rating? The calculation's three variables. The risk —: complaint, controversy, accusation of promoting a business. The reward —: a good segment, audience engagement, social media shares. The rating: the number that determined everything, the number that determined Trivedi-ji's job and Megha's salary and the channel's advertising revenue and the entire edifice of television journalism that rested on a single metric; how many people watched.

"Segment dikha," Trivedi-ji said. Show me the segment.

Megha had prepared for this. She had edited the segment on her laptop, the laptop that was a HP Pavilion, five years old, the laptop's fan running continuously because the video editing software demanded more processing power than the laptop possessed, the demanding, the software's entitlement and the laptop's suffering.

She opened the laptop. She played the segment.

The segment was four minutes and twelve seconds. Twelve seconds over the allocated three minutes. The twelve seconds being the excess that every good journalist produced, the excess, which was indicator that the story was too large for its container, the container, time slot and the story: the world.

The segment opened with the sarafa bazaar at night. The garlic and the gold, the transformation from jewellers to vendors, the nightly metamorphosis. Then the lane. Gali Mithaiyon Ki, the narrow lane, the green board. Then the shop, the counter, the tables, the Ichha Deewar. Then Harsh, the high pour, the eighteen-inch pour, the amber stream catching the light.

Then the wall. The chits. The wishes read aloud by Megha's voiceover: the voiceover, which was her voice, her Hindi, the Hindi that was neither the anchor's formal Hindi nor the street's colloquial Hindi but the Hindi of a woman who was telling you something important and who expected you to listen.

Then Santosh. The chaat stall. The hands assembling dahi-puri. The interview, Santosh's face, Santosh's voice: "Sattaees saal se yahan khada hoon. Ek chutti nahi li.

Then Pushpa. The ten-by-twelve room. The floor. The sari wish. "Meri ichha? Ek nayi sari. Samundar pe pehenne ke liye."

Then the collection. The Chappan Dukaan shopkeepers: Vijay Malviya handing over ₹500, Geeta Tai counting coins from her sabudana khichdi stall's earnings, Faizal Khan of the egg roll stall saying: "Santosh mere baaju mein khada rehta hai. Sattaees saal se. Samundar nahi dekha usne? Yeh toh galat baat hai." Santosh stands next to me. Twenty-seven years. He hasn't seen the ocean? That's wrong.

Then the end. Megha's voiceover:

"Yeh kahani abhi poori nahi hui hai. Santosh ne samundar abhi nahi dekha. Collection abhi chal raha hai. Ichha Deewar pe abhi bhi ichhayein likh rahi hain. Aur Harsh Tomar, Gali Mithaiyon Ki ka chai-wallah. Abhi bhi koshish kar raha hai. Jaise uske Baba ne koshish ki thi. Jaise Ichha Deewar ne baaees saalon se koshish ki hai."

This story isn't over yet. Santosh hasn't seen the ocean yet. The collection is still going on. Wishes are still being written on the Ichha Deewar. And Harsh Tomar, the chai-wallah of Gali Mithaiyon Ki. Is still trying. As his father tried. As the Ichha Deewar has tried for twenty-two years. The atta dust was fine and dry.

Then the scroll at the bottom: Ichha Deewar, Tomar Chai & Nashta, Gali Mithaiyon Ki, Sarafa Bazaar ke paas, Indore. Subah 5 baje se Raat 11 baje tak.

The screen went dark. The segment ended.

Trivedi-ji was silent. The silence, which was, Trivedi-ji was never silent. Trivedi-ji was the man who talked during other people's segments and who talked during his own thoughts and who talked during meetings that required listening. Trivedi-ji's silence was the equivalent of another man's standing ovation.

"Char minute hai," Trivedi-ji said. Four minutes.

"Sir, teen mein fit nahi ho rahi."

It doesn't fit in three.

"Char minute de doonga. Lekin: ek change."

I'll give you four minutes. But. One change.

"Kya?"

"End mein, 'Yeh kahani abhi poori nahi hui hai' ke baad, ek line add kar: 'Jab yeh kahani poori hogi. Hum aapko bataayenge.' Tab audience wait karega. Tab audience wapas aayega. Tab rating aayegi."

At the end, after "This story isn't over yet", add one line: "When this story is complete: we'll tell you." Then the audience will wait. Then the audience will come back. Then the rating will come.

The sequel. Trivedi-ji wanted a sequel. Trivedi-ji wanted the audience to return. Trivedi-ji was thinking not about Santosh or the ocean but about the number — the rating, the metric, the single number that justified everything.

But the sequel was — the sequel was also what Megha wanted. The sequel was the second part. The part where the collection was complete and the tickets were booked and the train departed and Santosh's family rode to Mumbai and from Mumbai to Goa and from Goa to the ocean. The sequel was the ending. The sequel was the wish granted.

"Done," Megha said.

"Kab air karun?"

"Aaj raat. Nau baje."

Tonight. Nine o'clock.

"Theek hai. Nau baje. Bhupendra ke segment ke baad, weather ke pehle."

After Bhupendra's segment, before the weather.

After Bhupendra's segment, before the weather. The slot. The slot that was not the opening (the opening was politics) and not the closing (the closing was sports) but the pre-weather slot, the slot that audiences watched because they had already invested thirty minutes in the bulletin and were waiting for the weather and would tolerate one more segment before the weather arrived.

The pre-weather slot was, the pre-weather slot was real estate. The pre-weather slot was the slot where good stories died quietly because the audience was tired and the remote was in the hand and the hand was itching to change the channel. The pre-weather slot was the challenge. The challenge —: *make them stay. Make them not change the channel.

Megha accepted the slot. She accepted the challenge. She accepted because the story was good and the story would make them stay and the staying would be, the staying would be the proof. The proof that television could still make people feel. The proof that a two-minute. Four-minute, segment about a chai shop in the old city could compete with the politicians and the panelists and the outrage.

She went back to her desk. She added the line: "Jab yeh kahani poori hogi: hum aapko bataayenge." She exported the segment. She sent it to the editing suite for the final colour correction and the lower-third graphics and the opening bumper that said IBN MP SPECIAL.

At 6 PM, she left the office. She rode the Activa to Gali Mithaiyon Ki. She walked into Tomar Chai & Nashta.

"Aaj raat," she said.

"Kya aaj raat?"

"Segment. Nau baje. IBN MP."

Harsh's face changed. The change that was, she was learning to read the changes now, the way she read her notebook, interpretation of something that was writ, the readingten in a language that she was only beginning to learn. This change was surprise.

"Aaj raat?"

"Haan. Trivedi-ji ne haan bol diya. Char minute ka segment. Nau baje. Dukaan ka address end mein scroll mein aayega."

"Aur: aur sequel?"

She smiled. "Tumhe kaise pata?"

How did you know?

"Producer hai woh. Producer ko sequel chahiye. Sequel se rating aati hai."

He's a producer. Producers want sequels. Sequels bring ratings.

"Tumne phir se journalism ki baat ki."

You talked about journalism again.

"Mathur-ji ke fifteen saal ka gyaan."

Fifteen years of Mathur-ji's wisdom.

She ordered chai. He made it. Kesar wali. Without being asked. The without-being-asked having become the pattern, the pattern having become the language, the language having become the thing between them. The thing that neither had named and that neither needed to name because the naming would make it a thing and the not-naming kept it a feeling, and feelings were larger than things.

"Collection mein kitna aaya?" she asked.

"₹24,800."

"₹24,800? Last count ₹10,600 tha."

"Gali ke logon se ₹6,200 aaya. Bazaar se ₹4,000. Aur: aur Chappan Dukaan ke baaki stalls se ₹4,000."

₹6,200 from the lane people. ₹4,000 from the bazaar. And ₹4,000 from the remaining Chappan Dukaan stalls.

"₹24,800 out of ₹28,000-₹35,000."

"Haan. Aur segment aaj raat air hoga. Agar kal ek bhi insaan dukaan mein aake ₹3,200 de deta hai. Toh ₹28,000 ho jaayega. Aur ₹28,000 mein, tight hai lekin ho jaayega. Sleeper class. Budget hotel. Tight khana budget. Ho jaayega."

If even one person comes to the shop tomorrow and gives ₹3,200: it'll be ₹28,000. And with ₹28,000. It's tight but doable. Sleeper class. Budget hotel. Tight food budget. Doable.

"Agar zyada aaya toh?"

If more comes?

"Agar zyada aaya toh — AC three-tier. Thoda achha hotel. Pushpa ki sari ke saath matching chappal."

If more comes — AC three-tier. Slightly better hotel. Matching sandals with Pushpa's sari.

Megha laughed. The laugh that was, the laugh that was first laugh. The first laugh between them. The laugh that broke something. Not the boundary (the boundary had been dissolving for days) but the formality, the formality that two people maintained when they were pretending that the thing between them was professional, the pretending; fiction that journalists and subjects maintained when the journalism was becoming something else, the something else — thing that the kesar chai carried between the counter and the table.

"Aaj raat nau baje," she said. "Dekhna."

Tonight at nine. Watch.

"Dukaan mein TV nahi hai."

There's no TV in the shop.

"Toh phone pe dekh lena. IBN MP ka YouTube channel pe live aata hai."

Watch on your phone. IBN MP's YouTube channel goes live.

"Phone pe TV dekhna, yeh toh paap hai."

Watching TV on a phone, that's a sin.

She laughed again. The second laugh. The second laugh being easier than the first, the easiness (opening), the opening that the first laugh had created, the opening through which the second laugh passed with less resistance, the resistance; reduced with each laugh, the reducing, which was thing that laughter did: it reduced the distance between two people by the width of one shared joke.

"Main chali," she said. "Kal aake bataungi, kitne log aaye. Kitna paisa aaya."

I'm leaving. I'll come tomorrow and tell you — how many people came. How much money came.

"Kal mat aana."

Don't come tomorrow.

"Kyun?"

"Kal Sunday hai. Chutti le. Ek din chutti le. Tu — tum; aap bhi sattaees saal se bina chutti kaam kar rahi ho.

Tomorrow is Sunday. Take a day off. You've also been working without a break. Journalists can take days off too.

The "tu" to "tum" to "aap" correction. The correction, which was — most telling thing that had happened betw, the correctioneen them. The "tu" being the intimate, the intimate slipping out because the conversation had become intimate, the slipping, involuntary, the involuntary, which was truth. The correction to "tum" being the retreat: the retreat from the intimate to the familiar. The further correction to "aap" being the overcorrection, the overcorrection that revealed the original slip, the revealing —: I called you "tu." I didn't mean to. I did mean to. I corrected myself because the shop is not the place and the evening is not the time and the chai between us is not yet the glass that my parents shared, the one glass for two people.

Megha noticed. She noticed because she was a journalist and journalists noticed, and she noticed because she was Megha and Megha noticed the things that journalists were trained to notice and the things that women were born noticing.

"Theek hai," she said. "Kal nahi aaungi. Parson aaungi."

Fine. I won't come tomorrow. I'll come the day after.

"Parson kesar wali tayyar rahegi."

The day after, the kesar one will be ready.

She left. The Activa's buzz receded. The gali absorbed the silence. The silence absorbed the evening. The evening absorbed the anticipation: the anticipation of 9 PM, the anticipation of the segment, the anticipation of the scroll at the bottom of the screen that would show the address of a twelve-foot chai shop in a lane named after sweets that no longer existed.

At 9 PM, Harsh stood behind the counter. The shop was full — the evening crowd, the sarafa crowd. He had his phone propped against the cash register: the phone, a Redmi Note 11, older than Salim's, the screen cracked in the bottom-left corner, the crack, which was a fall from six months ago that he had not repaired because the crack did not affect the screen's function and the repair cost ₹800 and ₹800 was the cost of fifty-three glasses of chai and fifty-three glasses of chai was a day's revenue and a day's revenue could not be spent on vanity.

He opened YouTube. He found IBN MP's live stream. He waited.

At 9:37 PM. Thirty-seven minutes after the bulletin started, after the politics and the crime and the CM's announcement and Bhupendra's segment about the new flyover, the anchor said: "Aur ab — ek khaas kahani. Indore ke purane sheher ki ek chai ki dukaan mein ek deewar hai, ek Ichha Deewar — jahan log apni ichhayein likhte hain. Aur ek chai-wallah hai jo un ichhayein poori karne ki koshish karta hai."

And now: a special story. In a chai shop in Indore's old city, there's a wall, a Wishing Wall, where people write their wishes. And there's a chai-wallah who tries to grant them.

The segment played. Four minutes and twelve seconds. The sarafa. The lane. The shop. The pour. The wall. The chits. Santosh. Pushpa. The collection. Faizal Khan saying "That's wrong." The voiceover. The ending: "This story isn't over yet. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

The scroll: Ichha Deewar, Tomar Chai & Nashta, Gali Mithaiyon Ki, Sarafa Bazaar ke paas, Indore.

The segment ended. The weather began. The weatherman predicted clear skies and a high of 34°C and a low of 19°C and the prediction was probably wrong because the IMD's Indore station used equipment from 2014.

Harsh put the phone down. The shop was, the shop was the same. The customers were drinking chai. The counter was wet. The tube light was buzzing. The Ichha Deewar's pushpins were catching the light.

Nothing had changed.

Everything was about to change.