The four of us were sort of freelancers and not affiliated to any newspaper. Thakur had written a racy book before, All the Prime Ministers’ Men, in the fashion of an American bestseller, and had been freelancing and looking for material for his next book. Devdutt, a Gandhian, in impeccable white khadi kurta-pajama always carried a bundle of papers and invariably travelled by bus. Gopal was the only exception with a respectable job with a media group that had diverse interests, ranging from plantations to ship breaking, and had a car, a Fiat which he himself drove and was the one who kept making all the moves and was in charge of the logistics. I had been, strictly in newspaper jargon, the wrong font, and not of the charmed circle of those who mingle with leaders and call them by their first names, having worked at the desk and been relegated to the category of ‘devils’ or ‘butchers’ for mangling the copies the correspondents had filed. It was a thankless, unglamorous, low-paying job and one had been condemned to it. This was also one’s first foray into the elite circle of the scribes who claimed the leaders always consulted them, the ‘advisors’, and could walk in without appointment into the homes and high-security offices of these leaders and decision-makers. This outing was quite an education as well as an eye-opener. One never knew that such a world existed, and that beyond the galley proofs and deadlines and the vapour of lead fumes, there was the ‘world in the evening’ where parties were held and much gossip floated and intrigues happened and deals were swung.