A lot happened during the course of hot jobs: barrels of coffee and masala chai, thick fumes of tobacco, night rides through Mumbai after hours of coaxing myself to write a masterpiece, calling up strangers and badgering them for information and getting a Buddha-like subject to speak about himself (gosh! I had to almost threaten him at gunpoint for some dope, er, information).
I also experienced a strange phenomenon. Sumana Ramanan, the senior editor, who usually radiates love and compassion, suddenly grew horns and nails a day before the article was published. I further lost some of my rapidly-dwindling crowning glory in moments of exasperation. Sigh! I can’t face the camera at the awards night. I would rather send my wife to get the Pulitzer.
Wife!, oh yes, My lovely friend for the past five years is now my bitter-half (her sweetness, whatever little I had tasted before marriage, has disappeared without a trail). She blames a lazy husband for her metamorphosis. But I am happy: A tormentor is better than a doormat. Hot Jobs! at home too. And the prize is…Please don’t ask me. I’m blushing.