Notion Press

Old No. 38, New No. 6

McNichols Road, Chetpet
Chennai - 600 031

First Published by Notion Press 2019

Copyright © John Louis 2019
All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 978-1-64650-913-3

This book has been published with all efforts taken to make the
material error-free after the consent of the author. However, the
author and the publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any
liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by
errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from
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While every effort has been made to avoid any mistake or omission,
this publication is being sold on the condition and understanding that
neither the author nor the publishers or printers would be liable in
any manner to any person by reason of any mistake or omission in
this publication or for any action taken or omitted to be taken or
advice rendered or accepted on the basis of this work. For any defect
in printing or binding the publishers will be liable only to replace the
defective copy by another copy of this work then available.
 1

“Love all,” called out Zuben.

It was past seven on a bracing Monday morning, and
Zuben and Martin were starting a new game of badminton.
They were neighbours in a gated community of villas
occupied mostly by expatriates. They were into March,
but luckily Oman was enjoying an extended winter this
year. Winters in Oman were always the best part of the
year. Daytime temperatures ranged in the comfortable
20s and families could spend good time outdoors. Kids
could run around in the many parks that dotted the city
and play real games. They could tumble on the lush grass
banks or improve their footballing skills in playgrounds
that most neighbourhoods had. In a few weeks’ time, the
temperature would soar and playing outdoors even this
early in the morning would be unthinkable.
The makeshift badminton court was outside Zuben’s
villa and he could see Anita in the kitchen, toasting bread
and juggling all the other seemingly small early morning
chores. Their 14-year-old Natasha would be getting ready
for school. The school bus would be here in 20 minutes.
Mornings were always hectic.
“Zuben, come in please. We are running late already,”
Anita called out of the kitchen window.
Zuben feigned a temporary loss of hearing but his
friend from across the net ribbed him with a knowing
smile.
“Hey, I thought I heard the high command summon
you, mate.”
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Final Conquest

He knew Martin loved to wind him up. Zuben gave

him an exasperated look and called back to Anita “Just two
more minutes, dear. Should not take much more to finish
him off.”
And to Martin, he said, “You cannot run away, man. I’ll
win this match.”
Martin grinned and closed out a point with a deft
placement.
10 minutes later, the sweaty duo was packing up, Zuben
with a smug look on his face.
“It’s okay mate. I have to let you win sometimes,”
Martin said good-naturedly and was away before Zuben
could reply.
***
Natasha stuffed the egg sandwich into her already full
mouth. Zuben hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder
while Anita thrust her lunch lox into its side pouch. “Run
now,” Anita ordered. Natasha grabbed her water bottle and
trotted out, and was at the bus stop a full minute before the
bus came.
This frenetic routine was an inevitable daily morning
affair. Despite their best intentions, chaos was the order of
mornings. Though it should be said that Natasha had not
missed her school bus even once.
Now in relative peace, Zuben and Anita were finishing
their breakfast before getting on to earn their pay. Zuben
Aigur represented Press Bureau of India in Oman and the
rest of the Middle East. He would turn 40 in three months’
time and the first signs of a paunch were evident. His time
12
 John Louis

on the badminton court clearly did not make up for his

love for good food.
Anita worked as a gynaecologist at the Royal Oman
Government Hospital. She was in her late 30s, with
shoulder-length wavy black hair framing her big black
eyes, upturned nose and full lips. She kept her supple body
in shape with regular yoga and occasional visits to the gym.
They had been married for 16 odd years now. It had
all started when Zuben came one evening to drop his
friend Rizwan after a bowling session. Over cold coke and
spicy chilly bhajji at the medical college cafeteria, Rizwan
introduced his classmate Anita Rozario and her friends
who had just wandered in. At one inch short of six feet,
with merry eyes and thick black hair, Zuben was a natural
magnet for girls. Anita was no exception. They hit it off
instantly and Rizwan was left to smirk knowingly. In those
days, owning a bulky mobile phone was a luxury that no
student could afford, and so Zuben spent most of his time
around the medical college campus. He just about managed
to clear his mass communication classes, but secured
Anita’s unconditional love.
Anita Zuben Aigur was from a Konkani Catholic family
and Zuben a Hindu from the hilly Coorg. An inter-religious
union was bound to raise hackles on both sides, and they
had their fair share. Brushing aside all objections, they
married and started their careers in Bangalore. When
Press Bureau of India started, he came on board, and in
a few months, was offered the chance of starting up a
Middle East desk. He had grabbed the opportunity. The
perks were a better pay package and a relatively stress-free
working life. He had the option of choosing UAE as his
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Final Conquest

base, but opted for Muscat, Oman’s capital city. Location

wise, it was only a five-hour drive or a short flight away
from any city in UAE. The city was modern and friendly
with broad roads and many shopping malls. For a region
more known for its searing desert heat and sandy dunes,
the city was surprisingly green and was kept that way with
considerable care. Zuben was content. So far, life had been
kind to him.
He looked at Anita, and sensed that she had something
on her mind.
“Thinking of your patients already?” he asked.
“Zuben, the hospital wants me to volunteer for a rural
medical awareness campaign.”
“What do you mean, wants you to volunteer?
Volunteering should be voluntary, right?”
“Yeah, but somebody always has to volunteer or else
these camps would never happen. Also, I would like to do
it too… my bit of good for the society.”
Zuben grinned, “Okay, so what you actually want to say
is that I have to pick up the slack at home,” and poked her
playfully in her dimpled cheek. “You don’t have to hesitate.
I have done it often enough.”
“Come on, Zuben. It has happened only once before,”
she protested before adding sheepishly, “The camp is on
Saturday.”
“What, this coming Saturday? But that’s part of our
weekend. We had planned the trip to the wadi.” Zuben
was scowling now. He treasured family time and saw no
point in giving it up for the sake of some unknown village’s
medical welfare.
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 John Louis

“Look Zuben, it is very difficult to change the camp

date because all the logistics and arrangements with the
village that go with it will have to be reworked. That’s not
easy, and I don’t expect them to do it just to accommodate
me.”
“But you don’t have to accommodate them either. Is
there no one else who can go?”
“Darling, this camp is good for my career too,” Anita
implored.
“I understand, Anita, but Natasha will be heartbroken.
She was telling all her friends about this trip, and now you
are going to cancel it! Volunteering and community work
is quite okay, but we should not be compromising our
personal life for that.”
Zuben looked at her glum face and realised that this
trip mattered to Anita. So it mattered to him as well. After a
pause, he added, “That’s what I would think. If you reckon
it is really important…”
“Hmm… see, we can postpone our trip to the wadi by
a week or two. And if Natasha feels like it, she can come
with me to the camp. It will be a good change for her, she
may like it.”
Zuben gave her a knowing look. “You have thought
it out fully, haven’t you? Let us hope the weather keeps
this way and the wadi does not run dry. Wadis are very
unpredictable”
Anita squeezed his hand and whispered “I love you, my
man.”
Zuben smiled and asked “Where is this camp?”
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Final Conquest

“It’s near Khabourah. It starts at 9.30, so I will have to

start by 8. It’s about one and a half hour’s drive.”
“That’s quite a way off, Anita. I’m not sure Natasha
would enjoy sticking around there for a whole day with
nothing else to do. Let’s see, I was thinking of checking
out some really ancient ruins near Sohar for an article that
I plan to write. I’ll try and make it on the same day and
maybe Natasha will like it better. On the way back, we can
pick you up so don’t take your car. Go with the hospital
transport. Okay with you?”
“That’s great, dear.” Anita rose from the table and gave
him a hug.
***
Zuben Aigur was now alone at home. He had converted a
room on the first floor as his office. One of the advantages
of working for this press agency was the option of working
from home, which in his case also saved the agency on office
rentals. Zuben was the lone correspondent of Press Bureau
of India in the Middle East region, which was mostly good
but often a bit hectic. This region had a large population
of Indians, a majority of whom were from South India. It
was therefore a region of political significance, for many
politicians and their ilk consciously wooed this segment
and sometimes visited the region. One such visit had
happened late last night and he had to file that report soon.
Zuben reported directly to the head office in Bengaluru.
After having lived in the garden city which had transformed
from a leisurely Bangalore to a chaotic Bengaluru, life in
Muscat was satisfying. The work-life balance was far better,
and the cultural exposure, especially for his daughter
Natasha, was a bonus. This place was a virtual melting pot
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 John Louis

of cultures, with the expatriates from all parts of the world

outnumbering the Omanis. A leisurely ten minute evening
stroll on any sidewalk meant you had crossed paths with
people of at least ten different nationalities, not counting
the Omani men in their white full-length dishdashas or
women in their predominantly black abayas. And the
place was a foodie’s paradise, with Turkish grills, North
Indian butter chicken, South Indian dosa and Japanese
sushi tempting you away from the Chinese, Lebanese and
other countless cuisines. And of course, the omnipresent
burgers and pizzas.
Being away from the head office also meant that he
was not constantly grated by office politics. His agency
had its own unspoken ethical slant too, which one got
to understand very quickly. Zuben, though never fully
comfortable with it, managed to get along reasonably well.
In today’s world, you did not have the luxury of living to
your beliefs – unless you were filthy rich or dirt poor and
did not mind staying so. Even then, one compromised as
needed. Zuben had learnt to accept this fact and adapt to
a world more at ease with different shades of grey than
the idealistic black or white. As long as he could earn his
bread and keep his Natasha and Anita contented, he was
not about to rock the boat.

17
 2

Ramesh Kumar eased out of his plush executive chair and

stretched his aching back. It was past 11 in the morning
and he had already spent more than three hours at his
desk, attending phone calls and reviewing reports before
they went public, while all the time keeping an eye on the
news reports streaming on the TV screens hung on one
wall of his modern looking office. Press Bureau of India’s
headquarters in India was located in Indira Nagar, a leafy
upscale enclave of Bengaluru with a good mix of residential
and business houses. As the founder president, his office
suite was spacious and occupied most of the 12th floor.
But one report did not sit well. He picked up his mobile
and called his Middle East man.
“Hi Zuben, how are you?” he checked.
“I’m fine, and you?”
The formalities completed, Ramesh got down to
business. “The report that you filed, that doesn’t sound
quite right.”
“The one about Santhosh’s Muscat visit? Why, what’s
wrong with that?” Zuben sounded curious and slightly
hurt.
“You have covered his speech quite well,” Ramesh
softened his disapproval, though it did not reflect his actual
thoughts. “But you have written that his programme was
not well-attended.”
“Well, that’s the fact. Less than a thousand people
turned up, and he had booked a local football ground for
that gathering.”
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 John Louis

“Zuben, it is not India that ten thousand can turn up for

his speeches. A thousand is a good number of expatriates
in Muscat.”
“Most of the people just turned up out of curiosity.
Only a handful were really into the event. Anyway, he holds
such strange views that it’s no surprise that the audience
was so small.”
“No, no. He does command a following here. And
anyway we are not here to judge his views. I suggest that
you reword your report a bit. Let it be more positive,”
Ramesh said firmly.
“Okay, I’ll touch it up a bit,” Zuben agreed, though his
reluctance was evident.
“Oh Zuben, while you do that, we’ll edit your visuals
here, to focus on just the crowd. We’ll snip out the vacant
spaces to give it a well-attended feel.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” Ramesh caught the
sarcasm in Zuben’s voice.
That discussion with Zuben Aigur reminded Ramesh
of the reason he was heading the Press Bureau of India. It
had started over two years ago, when he got a call from
Santhosh of Aura India.
“We need to meet. I have something for you,” Santhosh
had said.
Ramesh had by then known him for about five years,
as Santhosh went about spreading his ideology through
his non-profit organisation named Aura India. Santhosh’s
fame and influence in the region had grown steadily during
this time, and so his call intrigued him.
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Final Conquest

A few days later, they had met over lunch in one of the
quiet upscale restaurants on Bengaluru’s busy MG Road.
The food was good and though both would have preferred
slightly more spicy curries, they enjoyed it to the full. The
talk was limited to pleasantries and generalities. Ramesh
held his curiosity in check, waiting for Santhosh to come
around to the reasons for the meeting. Presently, spooning
his dessert, Santhosh said, “Ramesh, I should congratulate
you on your promotion. You deserve it.”
He had recently been promoted as the regional head of
Indian Voice and was enjoying it.
Ramesh smiled, “Thank you.”
“Where do you go from here?”
Ramesh looked up from his dessert, wondering where
this conversation was heading “Career wise? Well, further
progress would take me out of Bengaluru, to our Mumbai
headquarters. But that will be some years in coming, if at
all. One can’t think too far ahead, right?”
“Why don’t you start something of your own?”
“My own newspaper? That requires real financial
muscle.” Ramesh laughed it away.
But Santhosh was persistent. “If money wasn’t a
constraint, would you start up and run a media unit on
your own?”
“Of course, I would,” Ramesh said. His eyes narrowed,
he looked at Santhosh “But why are you asking me this?”
“I’m planning to start a media unit,” Santhosh replied
with an enigmatic smile.
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