No God in Sight by Altaf Tyrewala Page A

would air a detailed TV report on the story, anchored by GK, of course, while other newspapers and news channels looked about stupidly to make sense of this double whammy. Last night, while coordinating their joint efforts, it wasn’t clear who had buckled under whose advances—or whether any advance had even been made. It was assumed that everyone would screw everyone, because that’s how the news world was run—by a hyperintelligent, manic, sensualist population of bedfellows. Failing decency, the only way one could call upon others was by having fucked them—or at least their brains.
    ‘No bye-bye kiss?’ Rina called out.
    GK froze at the door, horrified by this new request. ‘Oh, okay,’ he said and jerkily approached Rina, who cracked up laughing and began pointing at GK as if there were other witnesses to the scene.
    ‘Pussy,’ GK smirked, and turned around and left.
    The Breaking News van picked GK up from the highway. The van was splattered with hundreds of inch-sized stickers of the Breaking News logo—a bluish-white egg with a jagged crack running down its shell.
    The channel had been around for over three years: people had ceased to find the not-quite-cracked-egg logo funny.
    ‘You haven’t shaved,’ was the first thing Punita, the producer, noticed as GK boarded the back of the air-conditioned van. And in a few seconds more she had logged criticisms on GK’s hair, his sweaty shirt, and the dark circles under his eyes. ‘It’s all going in my report,’ Punita informed him. She handed GK a tube of foundation and a hairbrush. ‘What’s the lead?’
    ‘Just a few hours ago, in a brave encounter, the Mumbai Police shot down X alleged militants holed up in Sanjay Gandhi Park. Assistant Commissioner of Police Balbir Pasha claims…’
    ‘Enough,’ Punita croaked. She was sick of this, all of this: driving around this shitty city for hours from riots toaccidents, from one political briefing to another, one murder to the next, scampering around for news, breaking her head over link-up failures and studio screwups and asshole news presenters like GK who thought they were stars.
    The van had entered the park spread over hundreds of acres of prime suburban land. The driver stopped to ask several people, who looked like they lived in the park, the location of the police–terrorist encounter. No one had heard a shootout, or anything about it.
    Eventually, two policemen riding past on a motorcycle directed the Breaking News team to the scene of the encounter. ‘See that forest?’ the officer on the pillion seat pointed to a profusion of trees in the distance. ‘Go in, drive toward your…your right, and you’ll come across a small pond. Drive around it, and right behind a hillock you’ll find… the, you know…’
    Punita glanced at GK making last-ditch efforts to improve his appearance in the handheld mirror. The two would have about ten minutes to gather information on the encounter, jot down a script, and broadcast the breaking news for the nation’s indifferent viewing. She ordered Girish, the cameraman-cum-technician seated beside the driver, to activate the satellite linkup.
    GK looked to his producer. ‘Fine?’
    ‘Gorgeous,’ Punita said without looking up from her laptop.
    *
    Fifteen. When GK learned how many terrorists Balbir Pasha’s unit had cornered and shot in the ambush, he smiled in spite of himself. Fifteen was a good number—not low enough to be ignored, not high enough to shock.
    The Breaking News team, after walking past the barricade of police vans, arrived at the scene of the encounter.
    Balbir Pasha was sitting on a stool, like a shikari, some yards from the corpses, all fifteen of which were laid out in a tight, neat row.
    ‘Finally!’ he cried out on seeing Girish, Punita, and GK. He stood up and began pacing about. ‘Come on, let’s do this quickly. We have to take the bodies to the morgue.’
    A gang of policemen converged behind Pasha, all of them staring