Fact Search Stymied
Office was usually cacophonous. Everyone was trying to win by pulling strings on the others. So did Shreeja. She was competing to earn a name from ongoing rape stories. Being a woman, she had leverage. Whatever she uttered about men appeared to be authentic. Her colleague Saurabh was at a spitting contest with her. He was there to save all men from the disgrace of a few perpetrators. He was shouting against misogyny, too. But he was always bringing the phrase “some men”. The phrase was spoiling the continuum in the narrative that Shreeja was trying to build with a robust male hating rape fearing force, especially comprising gullible college and university students. Her goal was to turn every incident of groping, anus pricking, genital flashing, semen spilling by men at public spaces, in transits, as heinous as rape. Throughout the evening, Shreeja felt distracted, every now and then, while interacting with college kids. Every boy she hushed up, irrespective of speaking for or against the motion she had created to prove all males being misogynous, reminded her of the boy she met late afternoon by the western walls of Rabindrasadan. A beautiful creature. Sadly, worth only five hundred rupees. Her story that night turned out vastly different from previous ones. It was not a superficial slur putting all males in an offender box. It was rather insightful. It was about how boys used to be objectified since birth. It was about how objectifying every person around used to become a boy’s normal activity and notion, how such a notion could have created sex predators in society. Quoting psychiatry here and there. Moumita, Sheeja’s editor, called Shreeja in her cubicle. She exclaimed, “Is this your competition with Saurabh…. like debating… clinging to your side of notion!” Shreeja felt disempowered by emotions. She needed some drinks, probably a joint, too. She could not argue her point properly, “I thought this was a natural balancing act. Instead of …” Moumita chopped her explanation, “The portal and the paper maintain balance. By you on one side, by Saurabh on the other. It’s your job to disturb the balance by putting more weight on your side. Thus, the ball rolls here, the game goes on. Now if you start playing for Saurabh … “ Moumita could not finish. Editor-in-chief, Tapaja, appeared in her cubicle. Obviously, she took the reign, “Why Shreeja’s story is still on edit? Pagination team is waiting.” Moumita replied, “Shreeja’s bombed tonight.” Tapaja was impatient, “What do you mean?” Moumita explained, “Shreeja has changed sides. Yet she’s no firepower.” Tapaja seemed intrigued, “Show me the piece.” Moumita left her chair. Tapaja started scanning on Moumita’s computer screen. She finished in three minutes and pronounced her verdict, “OK. Good piece. It’s not only way out of line, but almost on the other side.” She paused for a moment, then added, “The thing between Shreeja and Saurabh has been organic. Assume that Shreeja has changed her game. She has taken some unprecedented moves. That may dissatisfy her regular readers. But that would catch Saurabh’s readers to her piece. Saurabh must react tomorrow on this. Let him know. Then, Shreeja would focus more on police procedure, for the remainder of the week. She can turn back to opinion-oriented pieces if we decide on weekly meetings, with readership figures.” Muomita clarified, “Hence, Shreeja’s piece stays.” Tapaja confirms, “For a change.” Then she asks, “Shreeja, are your assignments clear for the week?” Shreeja confirmed, “Yes, Tapaja di.” Later in the watering hole Saurabh caught Shreeja, “Hey! You piece of shit. You just pushed bamboo on my ass.” Shreeja asked, “Do you have a piece of joint? I don’t have any…” Saurabh asked back, “What’s happened?” Shreeja tried to laugh, “Nothing. Just…” Saurabh insisted, “We’re partners in this. Even if you don't share why your whole being has changed, I still can sense. I know for sure that you’re topsy-turvy.” After a while, Shreeja turned completely drunk, started booze talking, “Who does rent children? Only for five hundred rupees? Who employs beggars?” Saurabh was listening. He responded, “Let’s get those motherfuckers.” Shreeja seconded, “Let’s do that.” Saurabh asked, “Tomorrow?” Shreeja stood up from the barstool, “Not tomorrow. Wait…” She ran to the washroom. Puked. Smudged her long hair and parts of her shirt with vomit. Splashed some water to clean up, got drenched. Yet she cleaned herself up. She returned to the barstool. Paid for her drinks. Touched Saurabh’s shoulder. Saurabh raised his left eyebrow as if asking, “Hence?” Shreeja replied, “From tomorrow I’m pursuing police procedure of the rape spree.” Saurabh responded, “Good to know. After shitting on your today’s shit, I’ll pursue the offenders then.” Shreeja felt relieved, “Then we’ll be back in our respective games with changed dimensions but same paradigm.” Saurabh changed his tone, “What about the beggars bugging you?” Shreeja’s face darkened, “I’ll start with police station tomorrow.” Saurabh finished his drink, paid and concluded, “Tomorrow I’ll be busy shitting on your shit. So, I won’t be there with you tomorrow. But I would really appreciate it if you let me into the beggars’ shit.” Shreeja went back to office to collect her staff and board an office drop-off vehicle with morning newspapers. She stopped riding cabs during late nights, wee hours, after the rape spree shook the city.
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