A Martian visited me on Sunday. Mr Newspaperman, he said he was. Of course it was a 'he'; women after all are from Venus, they can't be Martian. Anyway, I asked him how the weather was in Mars (raining like mad, he said. I thought of Delhi in maddening May), and the conversation slowly drifted towards newspapers. Two days on I am still in a daze, and don't know who asked the questions and who answered them. Anyway, here's how it might have gone on:
Do our newspapers have a fascination with girls? You bet.
Young girls? You bet, again.
So what are we talking about? Delhi newspapers, of course.
But why confuse issues by getting in girls, their youth and suchlike? Because that's what you see when anything happens in schools or university.
Can we come to the point? Of course, CBSE class XII results.
Yeah, what about them? The poor guys also went to school; the poor guys also slogged their butts off; the poor guys also wrote the papers; the poor guys also passed, with distinction et al.
You mean their pix should also hog paper space? Of course.
(All questions and their subtle answers hit the waste bin. The shit hit the roof, and the matron from Mars has to wipe the damned poo off it. Meantime, pandemonium ensues. yessir, nothing short pande-freaking-monium. Mr Newspaperman starts yelling like a Martian replica of earthly newspapermen who excel in raising the decibel level when there's nothing else to raise)
ARE YOU A MORON? WHAT KIND OF PAPER ON EARTH WANTS TO PRINT LAUGHING, HI-FIVING BOYS? ONLY A MARTIAN PAPER WOULD DARE ATTEMPT SUCH A THING...
(Blink blink... Spacecraft zooms in from, nowhere. Time for Mr Newspaperman to go home. In Mars. System conks off. Peace returns. I return to being at a loss.)
