Curiosity hijacked

I sat stunned for a while, not knowing what exactly to do but knowing that I had to be involved in some way or the other (enthusiastic seven-month-old reporter that I was). Everybody was doing something, the bosses rushed in and out of the room, some reporters parked themselves in front of the decrepit TV in one corner. The senior chaps were calling up anybody and everybody they knew in Indian Airlines to get the passenger lists and their addresses. The "six degrees of separation" theory had to work.

Nothing worked out for me that night and so I went home frustrated, knowing that I would look like a fool tomorrow when my story on Christmas shopping would get published. I was hungry, very hungry, for that elusive story.

The next day, I cancelled a Christmas lunch with an old friend. For now, I was on the prowl for the elusive addresses of the crew or the passengers. Now, in crisis situations like this, there is always a race for stories not just between various newspapers but amidst reporters themselves. This was the opportunity to show off your skills, to react to news, as they say. So, it was with quite a smug look on my face that I called my boss and said, "Guess what, I got the pilot Devi Sharan’s address." His response: "Rush."

That’s what I did, to the Indian Airlines colony at Vasant Vihar with my heart beating fast, praying no other reporter had been as smart as I had been (who was I kidding!). Once at the flat, I felt awkward. What was I thinking? Here we were, like a pack of wolves just dying for a story, and inside was this family who did not know what state their loved one was in. If I had been in their position, I knew I would punch any reporter, so what would they do to me? And how could I avoid sounding obnoxious.

At the door stood Sharan’s brother. He looked haggard from worry and his voice was weak, as if he had cried himself hoarse. There was an eerie silence and I just stood there. Eventually, the fear of an angry boss made me calmly explain that I wanted to speak to Sharan’s wIncredulously, he said she was in no state to speak. I could have persisted but something inside me reminded me to be human, so I said I understood how upset they were but would someone else in the family come and give me a statement.

I guess he sensed that I was as uncomfortable as he was or, maybe, he sensed my desperation but he went in and out came the brother of Navneet (Sharan’s wife). He too was a pilot and a bit more media-savvy. With patience, which I truly respected him for, he gave me substantial details about Sharan’s career and assured me that the family was fine and confident of his safe return. My request for his, his family’s or just his two daughters’ pictures was firmly turned down.

I was quite satisfied — I had managed to get the story without hurting the family’s sentiments, and with my self-respect intact. That was quite a lot in a reporter’s job. However, I died at the thought of having to come back here if the worst happened. And at that time, it so easily could have.