As I approach the Tabloid entrance I realize the door is barred—there are policemen standing both outside and inside the Tabloid building. A constable stops me even before I can reach the entrance. He is so fat the buttons on his uniform are ready to pop out and his belt has disappeared under his great, protruding, overhanging belly. He carries a notepad and seems to have been scribbling in it, though I can’t imagine how he can possibly read what’s written—his sweaty palms have smudged all the ink.

‘Madamji, what business do you have here and why are you going in?’ the constable asks me. He holds out his arm as if he means to physically stop me from entering, which I think he might.

‘Er, I work here,’ I say.

‘Very good. But you cannot go inside,’ he replies.

He tries to look official by puffing out his chest but instead only manages to thrust his belly out even further.

‘But I need to get to work, I’m already late,’ I say trying not to stare at his great, protruding, wobbling belly.

‘No work today madamji, didn’t your office inform you?’ he asks.

‘I’m sorry they didn’t—what’s happened here?’ I ask.

He instantly assumes an air of importance.

‘Police business. You cannot go in, go home. Please,’ he adds as an afterthought.

The constable notes down my name and address for his record. I give them to him and since he’s not forthcoming, I walk towards the autorickshaw stand—I guess I have to go back home. I’m even more irritated—I wouldn’t have had to come this far if only someone had bothered to inform me.

I ask several auto drivers if they’d drive me home but most of them refuse—they all love a good drama and whatever is happening outside Tabloid seems to hold great promise.

‘Breaking news na madam,’ one of them jokes when I try to coax him.

‘But what has happened here?’ I ask exasperated after the fifth driver refuses to budge.

‘Someone planted a bomb in that new newspaper office,’ one says and points towards Tabloid.

‘Nahin bhai that was a hoax. Some goons bashed up the guard and broke some tables inside,’ says another.

‘No, no, it was a bomb—the smoke alarum went off,’ insists the first.

‘Abe bewakoof, how will there be smoke without the bomb going off? I am telling you it was goons, I heard it from my police connection—I have regular evening tea with this hawaldar who lives in my colony,’ says a third.

Most of the other drivers seem really impressed with his ‘inside’ knowledge.

‘Tea with the police, wah—next you’ll tell us that Sonia Gandhi is your second cousin,’ another comments.

‘Nahin bhai how can she be my cousin? She’s Italian, I’m fully Indian no?’ the driver-with-the-police-connection replies.