Where Angels Prey by Ramesh S Arunachalam Page B

column. He spots an old man sitting on a bench placed just a few feet away from the tea shop, quietly sipping his tea and trying to look inconspicuous. However, almost every passerby greets him respectfully, indicating that he is a man of some local repute.
    The man’s face is deeply tanned and wrinkled, bearing testimony to long years of hard living. His eyes are deep-set and penetrating. He looks up for a moment and catches Chandresh looking at him. He reciprocates with a long measured look of his own. Chandresh, who has met more than his share of intimidating personalities in the course of his career, is not one to be easily disconcerted. Yet, he is the first to avert his eyes, feeling almost guilty for having invaded the man’s private space, even while the journalist in him feels compelled to reach out and speak to the man, to know the stories hidden in the depths of those sunken eyes. He pays for the tea and a handful of nuts wrapped in a paper cone, before walking toward the old man.
    The bench is placed to the right of the shack that houses the tea shop. Chandresh greets the old man politely before looking ahead at the majestic view that the spot affords. The sky is painted in shades of blue and white and the sun’s warmth is a benign grace that offers protection against the nip in the air.
    Chandresh rummages through his pockets for his pack of cigarettes when a thought strikes him.
    “Could I bum a cigarette off you, please?”
    It was a clichéd opening gambit but he couldn’t think of anything better.
    The old man looks at him in amusement.
    “Do I look like a man who smokes the expensive brands that you city folk patronize?”
    Chandresh shakes his head hurriedly.
    “A
beedi
would do just as well. I am not particular!”
    The old man gives him a knowing look before pulling out a
beedi
from a roll tucked away in the upper folds of his faded dhoti.
    He lights it with his own before passing it on to Chandresh.
    Chandresh thanks the man before drawing on the
beedi
, relishing its unrefined flavour for a change.
    “So, what are you nosing around here for?”
    The old man clearly believes in getting to the point!
    Chandresh decides that being honest and upfront will have the best pay-offs under the circumstances.
    “My name is Chandresh Rajan. I am a journalist and I write on serious social and development issues, focusing on the marginalized communities in particular.”
    The old man stares into Chandresh’s eyes as he comments bluntly.
    “You probably get paid well for your efforts and maybe get some awards even. Not much comfort for the people whose miseries you bare in print!”
    Chandresh realizes that he will have to earn the man’s respect if he hopes to get him to speak.
    “They would have no comfort even otherwise. I am not saying that I have achieved very much but please give me credit at least for the effort.”
    The man looks at him thoughtfully before giving a small nod.
    “It is the way I earn a living. So yes, I do get paid decent if not great money. And yes, it does feel good when my efforts are recognized. But in the process, along with my efforts, I am hoping the issues that I write about also get noticed.”
    Chandresh wonders if his justifications are meant to appease the old man or reassure himself. He does, in fact, often have moments of self-doubt, when his efforts seem futile and even selfish, but none had managed to veer him off course yet.
    “So, are you here to do a story on the movement?”
    Chandresh’s thoughts are broken by the old man’s question.
    He nods in assent before clarifying.
    “Yes, I am, in fact, waiting for Murthy, the local fertilizer agent, to escort me to meet the leadership.”
    The old man’s prickly stance seems to soften just a bit. Clearly, the fact that he has earned the trust of the leadership enough to be granted an interview counts for something.
    “What if I told you I was once part of a
dalam
3
too? That I was with none other than