The Reporter

The riots had gone on for three days now. Manish was desperate to get out. The groups were looting and smashing things and in one part of the town, blood had flowed. Manish struggled through the ruined wreckages of burnt cars. He had to get to the bridge. Beyond the bridge was the cordon. And freedom.

A jeep. It blared it’s horns and his heart sank. The jeep screeched to a stop next to him and the glaring hoodlums grinned wickedly.

“Going somewhere?” the leader mocked.

Manish said, “I’m a reporter. I’ve been interviewing your chief and I have to publish your demands, in tomorrow’s edition of Pratighaat.”

There was a silence. The rebels had not expected this.

“Can I see some identification?” the leader was a lot less mocking, now.

Manish pulled out the reporter card. It was grimy and filthy with dust and soot from the riots. As was Manish himself. Manish also pulled out the report along with it and handed both to him. The leader read the report. And grinned.

“Hey, you’re all right, man!” he said. “Come, we’ll escort you through a safe route. You’ll come out on the National Highway and it will lead straight to town. Get in!”

Manish got in and the rest of the crowd suddenly became very friendly. The next thirty minutes, the jeep navigated through some safe stretches and there were people waving to them and they waved back. Manish also joined in.

They left him at the corner of the National Highway and gave him a salute. “We should come out, strong!” the leader yelled. “Sure!” Manish gave him the thumbs up sign.

They left. Manish started walking into town.

Along the way, he tore up the report and pulled out the grimy card. When he rubbed off the grime, an unfamiliar face looked up at him. A face that belonged to a dead body, a person he had tried saving from some firing. The man had thrust these things on him. And died. Manish mumbled a prayer for his soul, but could not empathize with the man’s beliefs. 

But he did appreciate the fact that the man’s final act had saved him…..