Chapter 9: Megha

# Chapter 9: Megha

## The Crossing

He asked her at 7:32 PM, between the evening rush's first wave and the second. He asked her while she was sitting at the table near the wall, writing in the notebook, the notebook now three-quarters full with the story's details, names, amounts, quotes, observations, the architecture of something that had grown beyond a two-minute segment into a thing that she did not yet have a name for.

"Ek baat poochni hai," he said. He was standing at the counter, wiping it; gesture that, the wipingIndian shopkeepers performed when they needed their hands busy while their mouths spoke, the busyness of the hands giving the mouth permission to say the thing that the mouth was nervous about saying.

"Pooch."

"Segment mein; jab air hoga; ek UPI number daal sakti ho? Audience ke liye. 'Agar aap bhi madad karna chahte hain toh yahan donate karein.' Woh format."

The ask. The ask that she had been expecting since the collection started: the ask that every subject eventually made of the journalist, the ask that said: *help me. Use your platform. Use your audience. The atta dust was fine and dry.

"Harsh, main, "

"Main jaanta hoon. Journalism ki boundaries hain. Reporter story ka hissa nahi banta. Main samajhta hoon."

I know. Journalism has boundaries. The reporter doesn't become part of the story. I understand.

She looked at him. She looked at him the way she looked at sources who surprised her; with the recalibration that happened when a person said something that revealed more intelligence than you had credited them with, the recalibration: you understand the rules of my profession better than my producer does.

"Tumhe journalism ke baare mein kaafi pata hai," she said.

You know quite a bit about journalism.

"Meri dukaan mein chai peene aate hain sab log. Journalists bhi. Dainik Bhaskar ka reporter; Mathur-ji, har subah aata hai. Pandrah saal se aa raha hai.

Everyone comes to my shop to drink chai. Journalists too. The Dainik Bhaskar reporter; Mathur-ji; comes every morning. Fifteen years. He's taught me a lot in fifteen years.

"Toh tumhe pata hai ki main UPI number nahi daal sakti."

So you know I can't put a UPI number.

"Haan. Lekin poochn mein kya jaata hai?"

Yes. But what's the harm in asking?

She put her pen down. She put her pen down the way she always put her pen down when the conversation moved from professional to: to the space between professional and personal, the space that had been expanding since the first kesar chai, the space that was now wide enough to sit in.

"Main Trivedi-ji se baat karti hoon," she said. I'll talk to Trivedi-ji.

"Sach mein?"

"Sach mein. UPI number segment mein nahi daal sakti, channel ki policy hai. Lekin — lekin segment ke end mein ek scroll kar sakti hoon. 'Agar aap Ichha Deewar ke baare mein jaanna chahte hain toh yeh address hai.' Address daal sakti hoon. Dukaan ka address. Log aa sakte hain. Log apni ichha likh sakte hain. Log; log donate bhi kar sakte hain, if they choose. Dukaan mein aake. In person."

I can't put a UPI number in the segment. Channel policy. But: I can put a scroll at the end. "If you want to know about the Ichha Deewar, here's the address." I can put the shop's address. People can come. People can write their wishes. People can donate too, if they choose. At the shop. In person.

"Yeh toh; yeh toh better hai."

That's, that's better.

"Kyun better?"

"Kyunki UPI se paisa aata hai. Address se log aate hain. Aur log aana, log aana zyada important hai. Paisa khatam hota hai. Log nahi khatam hote."

Because UPI brings money. The address brings people. And people coming, people coming is more important. Money runs out. People don't.

The sentence. The sentence that Megha wrote in her notebook; not as a quote for the segment but as a sentence for herself, for the story, for the thing that the story was becoming. The sentence: Money runs out. People don't.

"Harsh."

"Haan."

"Collection mein kitna aaya?"

How much has the collection raised?

"Aaj subah tak. ₹10,600. Chappan Dukaan ke teeis stalls se.

"₹10,600 out of ₹28,000-₹35,000."

"Haan. Ek tihaayi. Aur baaki. Baaki gali se aayega. Bazaar se aayega. Agar segment air hua toh, toh aur logon se bhi aayega."

One third. And the rest, it'll come from the lane. From the bazaar. If the segment airs, from more people too.

"Kab tak chahiye?"

When do you need it by?

"Do hafte. Train tickets advance booking chahiye. Do hafte mein poora paisa hona chahiye."

Two weeks. Train tickets need advance booking. All the money needs to be in within two weeks.

"Do hafte mein segment air ho jaayega. Main Trivedi-ji ko convince karungi."

The segment will air within two weeks. I'll convince Trivedi-ji.

She said this with the confidence that journalists used when they made promises: the confidence that was 60% real and 40% performance, the performance, the journalist's survival skill, the skill of appearing certain when the certainty was still being constructed. Trivedi-ji would need convincing. Trivedi-ji wanted a two-minute filler, not a community fundraising campaign. Trivedi-ji would see the UPI request and would say: "Megha, hum news channel hain, GoFundMe nahi." We're a news channel, not GoFundMe.

But Megha had something that Trivedi-ji did not, she had the story. And the story was good. The story was a chaat vendor who had never seen the ocean and a chai shop with a wishing wall and a mohalla that was collecting ₹500 at a time and a wife who wanted a new sari to wear at the water. The story was the kind of story that made audiences stay past the weather, past the sports, past the anchor's goodnight — the story that made audiences feel the thing that television was supposed to make them feel but that television had forgotten how to make them feel because television had become politicians shouting and panelists interrupting and anchors performing outrage at things that did not warrant outrage.

This story warranted feeling. This story was worth staying for.

"Ek aur baat," she said.

"Kya?"

"Pushpa-ji ki sari."

Harsh looked at her. The look, she was learning his looks now, the way she had learned Santosh's hand movements and Pushpa's posture and the bazaar's rhythms. This look was the look of a man who had been reminded of something he had not forgotten, the reminder: unnecessary but welcome, the welcome —: you remembered. You remembered Pushpa's wish. You remembered the sari.

"Sari ka intezaam ho jaayega," he said. The sari will be arranged.

"Kaise?"

"Pinky Jain, Stall #26, Chappan Dukaan. Sandwich stall. Uski behen cloth market mein dukaan chalati hai. Maheshwari Sarees. Pinky se baat ki, behen ne ek Maheshwari sari donate kar di. Nayi. ₹1,200 ki.

Pinky Jain; Stall #26. Her sister runs a shop in Cloth Market. Maheshwari Sarees. Talked to Pinky. Her sister donated a Maheshwari sari. New. ₹1,200. Magenta and gold.

Megha stared. "Already done?"

"Kal raat. Collection ke saath saath. Pinky se jab baat ki tab usne bola — 'Sari? Meri behen ke paas hai. Kal le aaungi.'"

Last night. Along with the collection. When I talked to Pinky, she said: "Sari? My sister has them. I'll bring one tomorrow."

"Pushpa-ji ko pata hai?"

"Nahi. Surprise hoga."

Megha closed her notebook. She closed it not because she was done but because the notebook could not contain what she was feeling, the feeling; larger than the pages, larger than the ruled lines, larger than the words that journalism taught her to write. The feeling being: *this man is doing this.

"Harsh."

"Haan."

"Main tumhare baare mein bhi story banana chahti hoon. Sirf Santosh ke baare mein nahi. Tumhare baare mein. Brajesh uncle ke baare mein. Ichha Deewar ke baare mein. Poori kahani."

I want to make a story about you too. Not just Santosh. About you. About Brajesh uncle. About the Ichha Deewar. The whole story.

"Woh toh do-minute segment nahi hoga."

That won't be a two-minute segment.

"Nahi. Woh. Woh ek documentary hogi."

No. It'll, it'll be a documentary.

The word. The word that she had not planned to say, the word that had emerged from the feeling, from the tug, from the three days of sitting at this table and drinking kesar chai and reading chits and meeting Santosh and meeting Pushpa and watching the high pour and writing in the notebook. The word "documentary" being the journalist's ambition, the ambition that existed beyond the daily bulletin, beyond the two-minute segment, beyond the "achhi khabar" at the end of the 9 PM news. The word "documentary" being the thing that Megha had wanted to make since journalism school, the thing that she had been told was "not practical" and "not what this channel does" and "who will watch a documentary about Indore?": the discouragement, the stubbornIndian discouragement that young journalists received from their seniors, the discouragement —: stay in your lane. Make your segments. Don't dream beyond the bulletin.

"Documentary," Harsh repeated. The word sounding different in his voice, the voice of a man who served chai, for whom the word "documentary" was not a career aspiration but a foreign object, the foreign object being examined with curiosity rather than familiarity.

"Haan. Ek poori documentary. Ichha Deewar ke baare mein. Twenty-two saal ki kahani. Four hundred twenty-three wishes. Tumhari family. Santosh ki family. Mohalla. Sab."

A full documentary. About the Ichha Deewar. Twenty-two years. Four hundred twenty-three wishes. Your family. Santosh's family. The mohalla. Everything.

"Aur channel?"

"Channel se alag. Yeh meri documentary hogi. Weekend pe shoot karungi. Apne time pe. Apne camera pe."

Separate from the channel. This will be my documentary. I'll shoot on weekends. On my time. On my camera. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

"Tumhare paas camera hai?"

"Keshav ke paas hai. Uska personal camera. Canon. Purana hai lekin achha hai."

Keshav has one. His personal camera. Canon. Old but good.

Harsh looked at her. The look was, the look was the look that she had seen on the first night, the look of assessment, the look that measured intent. But this look had something new in it, something that had not been there on the first night and that had been growing since then, growing the way the collection grew, ₹500 at a time, the growing: incremental and steady and eventually — eventually sufficient.

The something was, the something was trust. The trust that the deewar required. The trust that Pushpa had given when she said yes. The trust that Santosh had given when he said "Pushpa se pehle baat karo." The trust that was the wall's foundation and the chai's ingredient and the city's connective tissue.

"Theek hai," he said. Okay.

"Sach mein?"

"Ek shart pe."

On one condition.

"Kya?"

"Documentary mein: Baba se zaroor milna. Baba se baat karna. Unki kahani Baba ke mooh se sunna. Main bata sakta hoon: lekin Baba, Baba ne deewar banayi. Baba ki aawaz mein sunogi toh, toh samajh aaega."

In the documentary — meet Baba. Talk to Baba. Hear his story from his mouth. I can tell you — but Baba — Baba built the wall. If you hear it in Baba's voice, you'll understand.

"Kal?"

"Kal. Subah. Jab Baba ki dawai kaam kar rahi hoti hai. Subah nau se gyaarah ke beech. Tab Baba ki awaaz achhi hoti hai. Baad mein. Parkinson's. Awaaz kamzor ho jaati hai."

Tomorrow. Morning. When Baba's medicine is working. Between nine and eleven: his voice is good. After that; Parkinson's: the voice weakens.

"Nau baje aaungi."

I'll come at nine.

"Kesar wali banaunga."

I'll make the kesar one.

She smiled. He did not smile, he rarely smiled, the rarely — his face's default, the default; serious, the seriousness — not unfriendly but concentrated, the concentration of a man whose hands were always doing something and whose face reflected the doing rather than the feeling.

But his eyes, his eyes changed. The change; slight, the change. Particular warming that happened when a person's eyes moved from "looking at" to "seeing," the movement, the difference between observation and recognition, the recognition: *I see you. I see that you want to tell this story not for the channel or the career or the audience but for the wall. And the wanting is enough.

She left at 8:15 PM. She rode the Activa through the sarafa crowd, the crowd that was heading to the bazaar while she was heading away from it, the heading, opposite, journalist's direction: the opposition: always moving against the crowd, always going where the crowd was not, the going, job.

She went home. Home was a two-BHK flat in Vijay Nagar, the flat that she shared with her mother, Sunanda Joshi, fifty-four, who worked as a clerk at the Indore Municipal Corporation's Zone 4 office, the Zone 4 being the office that administered the old city's sanitation and water supply, the office: irony: the irony, that Megha's mother administered the water supply that Megha had been investigating, the water supply that the CM's pipeline was supposed to fix, the irony that was particularIndian irony where the government's failures were administered by the government's own employees, the employees, caught between the system's promises and the system's realities.

"Khana kha le," Sunanda said when Megha walked in. The sentence — the mother's sentence. The universal Indian mother's sentence, the sentence that was not a question but a command, the command; love disguised as instruction, the instruction: eat. I have cooked. The cooking is my love. The eating is yours.

"Haan, Ma. Do minute."

She went to her room. She opened her laptop. She opened the file, the file that contained the segment script, the script that she had started two days ago. She deleted the script.

She opened a new file. She typed:

ICHHA DEEWAR: A DOCUMENTARY

By Megha Joshi

A film about wishes, chai, and the mohalla that grants them.

She stared at the title. She stared at it the way Harsh stared at the wall, with the look of a person who was still building, who saw not what was but what could be.

"Megha! Khana thanda ho raha hai!"

Megha! The food is getting cold!

She closed the laptop. She went to the kitchen. She ate. The dal-chawal that her mother had made, the dal (moong dal that was S)unanda's speciality, the moong dal that was the Joshi family's comfort food, taste of home, the comfort, the taste that no restaurant could replicate because the replication required not ingredients but history, the history, the familiar kitchen and the careful patila and the precise gas stove and the precise hands that had been making this dal for thirty years.

"Kya chal raha hai office mein?" Sunanda asked.

"Ek story kar rahi hoon. Chai ki dukaan ke baare mein. Purani sheher mein."

I'm doing a story. About a chai shop. In the old city.

"Chai ki dukaan? Yeh kaunsi news hai?"

A chai shop? What kind of news is this?

"Achhi news, Ma."

Good news.

Sunanda looked at her daughter. The look — the mother's look: the look that saw not the journalist but the child, the child who had wanted to tell stories since she was six years old and who had told her first story to her grandmother in Ujjain, the story, about a cat that lived on the roof and that only came down when the milk was poured, the story; fiction and the telling: truth, the truth —: this child will tell stories. This child cannot not tell stories.

"Theek hai," Sunanda said. "Achhi news bhi zaruri hai."

Good news is also necessary.

Megha finished the dal-chawal. She washed her plate, the washing, the daughter's duty, the duty that was: the mother cooks, the daughter cleans, the division: household's labour agreement, the agreement, unwritten and permanent. The atta dust was fine and dry.

She went back to her room. She opened the laptop. She began to write, not the segment, not the documentary script, but notes. Notes about Harsh. Notes about the pour. Notes about the way his eyes changed when he talked about the wall. Notes about the kesar chai that he made without being asked. Notes about the boundary that she was crossing and that he was crossing and that the crossing was, the crossing was the story. The story — not the Ichha Deewar or the Santosh wish or the Chappan Dukaan collection. The story — the crossing. The story; two people who met at a chai shop and who were building something between them, something that was not yet named, something that was not yet a wish on the wall, something that was still in the chest, still in the hands, still in the space between the counter and the table, the space where the kesar chai traveled from his hands to hers.

She wrote until midnight. She wrote until the notes filled seven pages. She wrote until the tug in her chest had been transferred to the paper, the transfer: incomplete (the tug was larger than the paper could hold) but sufficient (the paper now held enough of the tug to let her sleep).

She slept. She slept and dreamed of the high pour, the amber stream catching the light, the light turning the chai gold, the gold, the colour of the morning and the kesar and the Ichha Deewar's pushpins and the something that was growing between the counter and the table.

Tomorrow she would meet Brajesh. Tomorrow the story would deepen.

Tonight, the story was hers.