Beautiful Kashmiri carpet, in the interview room, is all setup. The bright lights don't duplicate the effect of the studio lights, but they are good enough to light up the face of the Prime Minister of India.
The chairs, the table, they are all in shiny brown mahogany wood.
Vivek Pradhan is going through his notes. Not because he has to make sure he presses the right questions, but to make sure his expressions are right at the right plug points.
"I miss asking questions", he thought to himself. The sheet he had in front of him, was a script of a well-choreographed interview, including details of the commercial break, details of camera shots (long shot close up shots, etc), even cues on choreographed laughter. The script had a few last-minute changes, which could not be formally typed through, because of the shortage of time. "This isn't journalism. This is fucking theatre."
The camera guy was still snacking while checking for last-minute glitches in the camera feed.
"They don't serve chicken here. This tastes like shit" said a camera guy to the audio mixer guy.
"Tea was good" said the audio guy.
"Tea?" protested the camera guy. "I"m not here to drink fucking tea. I'm in the Prime Ministers' house. Give me a fucking animal to eat."
"If you don't do your job properly-" said the audio guy, "-they might cut you up and serve you"
"This is bullshit man. This job used to mean something. I used to zoom in on the guy getting his ass kicked on TV; capture his shitless scared face on camera. Now-", he takes a bite of the green salad sandwich "-it's all gone down the tubes".
"It pays rent. That's all that matters. You all set there?", said the audio guy putting on the headphones.
"Yeah, yeah I'm all set", said the camera guy, dusting off the bread crumbs from his hands.
The suits started to ruffle. People in the room begin to stand up. And then, there was silence. The damp sound of the shoes crushing the carpet fabric could be heard.
He is here.