Fiction: A journalist searches for the mysterious Max Bulandi and early Indian rock musicians

Getting to work post lunch is unacceptable on a Monday morning at the offices of Mumbai Tasveer, a substandard tabloid masquerading as a local newspaper, for which I cover the entertainment and culture beat. Mumbai Tasveer is run by its third-generation owner Amay Prabhakar, a raging maniac who would be in prison for unwarranted profanity if he weren’t shielded within the confines of this family bastion. The publication employs a small staff of ten, mostly third-generation family loyalists, and relies heavily on stringers and media agencies to fill up space. As I take my seat at the desk, I am informed by my senior colleague Deshmukh that Prabhakar has been asking for me all morning.

He raises his voice the moment I step into his cabin. “You sonofabitch, where the fuck have you disappeared since Friday? I sent you to cover a fucking store launch and you got wasted on free booze instead? Where the fuck is my story, you freeloading bitch?” Then he gets up from his chair and gives me his customary hug and flattering smile. “How much did you drink, benchod?” Classic Prabhakar tactics. Keep them guessing. Play in the grey areas. Obfuscate.

I sit in the chair across the table and confess,...

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