Satisfied that she has sufficiently increased my (already heavy) workload, Comma turns her back to me and behaves as if I’m not there.

Frankly, I’m glad that’s all there is to it; sometimes she can carry on for half an hour. Much as I’m glad this Polly-you-are-useless session didn’t last long, I can’t help but feel miserable about the fact that this week again, there will be no stories carrying my name in the paper. In the three months that I’ve been working here, I’ve written a lot of stuff—mostly compilations, summaries and captions—but none of it carries a byline. I’ve made several excellent pages though.

There’s ‘Whirl this Week’ with its fashion parties, numerous designers and innumerable models who blaze on the ramp for a season and then usually snort out of existence. Then there’s the Bollywood page called ‘Bolly Bolly’—a take on balle-balle, Comma’s idea—with Bollywood stars, socialites having affairs with Bollywood stars and hitherto unknown restaurant owners who become celebrities by virtue of inviting Bollywood stars to their parties.

Making these pages is a thankless job since I don’t get any byline. Not only that, despite much compilation, nifty copy-paste, snazzy caption-writing and many late nights that go into making these pages, readers forget them with a turn of the page. I’ve never heard anyone ever say, ‘Ah, great picture-caption coordination on this TV listings page, wonder which journalist made it?’

To the Bin then.

The Bin is separated from the rest of the office by a thick, smokeproof, soundproof, bulletproof (some say), one-way-see-through glass door. Some journalists call it the Viewpoint because you can see the action inside the office. Other journalists call it the Screw Point, because during night shifts a different kind of action happens here. For smokers this is the Smoking Point while a few old timers whisper the name Suicide Point. The story goes that one hassled sub-editor—after half a year of getting no bylines and constant harassment by his editor—overdosed on Valium. I’ve never liked that story.

The Bin is really the landing of the fire-exit stairs and is always littered with unsold copies of Tabloid, discarded press release material, empty plastic cups, numerous cigarette butts (there’s a No Smoking sign but no one cares) and languishing journalists with languid cups of some beverage. Most journalists drink the watered-down office tea, which is slightly better than the watered-down office coffee. Some journalists, though, don’t drink caffeine at all but prefer Old Monk or Solan No. 1. Usually there’s always someone sitting on the stairs or smoking, today, though, the Bin’s deserted.