I had woken up with a strong urge to read the Atlantic. It had been too long. I wanted back in that loop. I was immediately inspired by Dispatch #2 from Paris, which Ta-Nehisi Coates delivered in a style not unlike my own. Maybe I could write something similar from here. I already was. I had been updating my journal religiously for two months now. Why not publish snippets of it here and, maybe somewhere down the line, there. I ran the idea past Puji and she agreed. She reminded me to contact Harpers as well - the long shot of all long shots - and I promised I would. Something had clicked in my head that morning. I was tired of being a nobody writer. I wanted to have people cling onto my every word. I wanted to go back to Montreal a different person.
Who wouldn't, right?
And in a funny way, hanging out with Puji all day, listening to her track down sources and introduce herself repeatedly on the phone, reminded me of my own freelancing days. This was her first assignment for a local paper ever. I hadn't thought seriously about publishing anything for the last seven years. Now, suddenly, it felt like we were running our own little newsroom, working on very different stories with very, very different deadlines. I wrote quietly and she worked loudly. Every five minutes she had another question or something she wanted to run by me. A constant menace to my concentration, she was. I was the kind of person who preferred working uninterrupted. Puji had her own way. Habits from the CNBC newsroom, I assumed. And it wasn't just the way she worked. It was the way she was. Often, when it got too quiet, she would call out Robbie, repeatedly, until I answered. I'd let my name hang out there for a little while. Just to bust her balls back. And when I'd ask her what was up, she'd simply look at me and smile.
So I was simultaneously immersed in both her story and mine. She asked me what questions to ask so-and-so local official and what I thought about a particular story angle or sentence structure. She would get off the phone with a chest specialist and fill me in. When the school headmistress in Sonsoddo didn't return her call, she let me know. When the CEO of Fomento Green, some mineral resource company operating in one of the more hazardous corners of Goa, got angry with her for making 'false and baseless allegations' and then proceeded to ask her if there were domestic issues at home that might be responsible for such unacceptable questioning, from a woman no less, she let me know. And when she later discovered that this same man was himself a former environmentalist and the cousin of the very same doctor who had levied said baseless allegations, she let me know as well. I probably could have written the story myself but I played the role of editor instead. I was learning enough just watching her work. She was very good with people. She listened attentively and asked poignant questions. She would always repeat whatever the person had just said when jotting down a quote. She researched tirelessly and wanted to pursue every possible angle. She was a natural reporter.
And even if it was the writing part that she dreaded most - the part I dreaded least - I knew that it too would come more naturally with time. So while she spent the better part of the day researching, I spent it writing and rewriting. And dreaming of better stories to come.
Who wouldn't, right?
And in a funny way, hanging out with Puji all day, listening to her track down sources and introduce herself repeatedly on the phone, reminded me of my own freelancing days. This was her first assignment for a local paper ever. I hadn't thought seriously about publishing anything for the last seven years. Now, suddenly, it felt like we were running our own little newsroom, working on very different stories with very, very different deadlines. I wrote quietly and she worked loudly. Every five minutes she had another question or something she wanted to run by me. A constant menace to my concentration, she was. I was the kind of person who preferred working uninterrupted. Puji had her own way. Habits from the CNBC newsroom, I assumed. And it wasn't just the way she worked. It was the way she was. Often, when it got too quiet, she would call out Robbie, repeatedly, until I answered. I'd let my name hang out there for a little while. Just to bust her balls back. And when I'd ask her what was up, she'd simply look at me and smile.
So I was simultaneously immersed in both her story and mine. She asked me what questions to ask so-and-so local official and what I thought about a particular story angle or sentence structure. She would get off the phone with a chest specialist and fill me in. When the school headmistress in Sonsoddo didn't return her call, she let me know. When the CEO of Fomento Green, some mineral resource company operating in one of the more hazardous corners of Goa, got angry with her for making 'false and baseless allegations' and then proceeded to ask her if there were domestic issues at home that might be responsible for such unacceptable questioning, from a woman no less, she let me know. And when she later discovered that this same man was himself a former environmentalist and the cousin of the very same doctor who had levied said baseless allegations, she let me know as well. I probably could have written the story myself but I played the role of editor instead. I was learning enough just watching her work. She was very good with people. She listened attentively and asked poignant questions. She would always repeat whatever the person had just said when jotting down a quote. She researched tirelessly and wanted to pursue every possible angle. She was a natural reporter.
And even if it was the writing part that she dreaded most - the part I dreaded least - I knew that it too would come more naturally with time. So while she spent the better part of the day researching, I spent it writing and rewriting. And dreaming of better stories to come.
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