My friend, Mr. Journalist

Some thirty years ago, I had been interning at the National Museum. India was progressing but only in a weird fashion, for girls like me started pursuing engineering while it was in no way allowed to converse with our male counterparts. There he was, for all the quirk he carried, he looked like a journalist who had nothing better to do. A keen observer and the most charming guide of us all, was probably what stopped the curator from letting disgusting bellows out at him while he spoilt the boys with stories from all around the world. For all the six weeks, I stood every evening admiring the bronze owl . One day, found Mr. Journalist inquiring the curator about it. “Oh It’s not important” the curator said, “A delegate brought in..”

On the last day, I turned as the owl took a free fall to the ground - my friend stood right there,unruffled and unabashed. I ran to pick it up. He stuffed the smallest bronze feather into my palm and smirked- “ Criminals, are we now? "