Apologies

The camera was rolling on, focused on the spot just a few feet in front of it.

Richa felt bad. Not physically, but mentally. The quarrel right in the morning had not helped alleviate the
feeling. She kept snapping at anybody and everybody who crossed her path. They should add a ‘bad
mood day’ to the list of bad day things, she mused.

Arjun had something akin to a depression. The morning’s quarrel was the one and only thing to blame.
He was the kind of person who kept a mile away from anything more vulgar than ‘hell’.
Uncharacteristically, he used f**k today almost unfailingly every minute.

Richa and Deep rushed along the usual filled up roads of the city. She left the driving to Deep. He was
the pro, who could go on a date with a Chevy, sleep with a Toyota and daydream about Ferraris. To earn
money to buy the car magazines—and occasionally food—he worked as a cameraman with Richa, who
was a reporter, for a news channel.

The streets were disgracefully crowded, but not by the usual cocktail of citizens’ cars and public
transport—it was replaced by a handful of the old crowd and a multitude of ambulances. They were on
their way to a nightclub, which had been attacked by some terrorist group. “These terrorists sure like to
party—and they didn’t forget the firecrackers,” Reflected Deep with a sarcastic smile.

“Yeah. Right. Mind the road.” Instructed Richa sourly.

Deep pursed up. Richa was still in a bad mood. The suicide-bombers had just wanted news-space; they
weren’t high on the explosives. What they did, sufficed to bring the roof down crushing quite a number
of people to death.

They had to leg the last few hundred meters. As they passed over the police boundary, flashing their IDs,
the site came into sight. Rescue operations were on in full swing. Richa went on air with a short talk to
the studio, trying to appear the peppy girl the viewers were accustomed to.

With a sudden inspiration, she walked to the wreck. She wanted to capture the rescue of a man under
the bricks. Deep pointed the camera to the rescuers around the man. A faint sound emanated like that
of a person talking. As they cleared away the bricks, the sound became clearer. It went something like,
“…Richa I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Don’t be mad at…”

Richa came to a sudden stop. Her reserves were down. A shrill tremulous voice spoke through her,
“Arjun?” The mike fell from her hand, and people around the country heard a thud in their TVs.
Turning her doubts true, the rescuers turned the corpse which had a mobile clutched in its hand. The
mike transmitted to the people what Richa heard: “…Hope you can forgive me. Arjun.” Then the phone
moved on to the next track after the audio recording. Elton John went on air:
“What have I gonna do to make you love me?
What have I gonna do to make you care? ...”

Richa’s knees gave way and she sank on the rubble beside Arjun. The country, maybe the world was
rooted in front of a TV as Elton John went on:
“…Oh, it seems to me,
Sorry seems to be the hardest word.”

Richa cried. The camera was rolling on, focused on the spot just a few feet in front of it.

Anish Majumder

Class: XI A, Roll no.: 144