Off the record

Considering the profession I'm aspiring to enter, this phrase is going to be a great source of frustration for the rest of my life. Considering how important what I'm about to say is, I'll get to the point first and leave the rambling for later. I want Shekhar Gupta's job. I want to be the Editor-in-Chief of The Indian Express. My life's ambition is to become Top Dog of India's best newspaper. I won't settle for anything less. I have no problems with condemning this statement to the irreversible and irretrievable immortality of the internet and having to be reminded about it in case I should fail because I won't.

Right now, I don't want to think I'm going to regret being this rash and impulsive. It's just a matter of climbing to the top again. It took two years to become Head of Literature in my college festival and that started with a simple statement to my HoD that I was going to kill her and take her job. All I have to do to succeed this time is pull the same gag on Shekhar Gupta, laugh over it, remind him each time I see him and work hard in the meanwhile.

I can't imagine life without The Indian Express now and I've already decided what I'm going to do as its supreme overlord. Hold on, to be fair, I will reveal to you the source of current crazy ambition. On Wednesday, he invited all his employees to his house for a Diwali party the next night and that included us students too. Simply standing in his living room completely overshadows all my achievements racked up over 21 years.

Everyone who matters in this country was in attendance, mingling with us underlings, sounding genuinely interested every time we were introduced as the 'kids from the journalism school'. It still hasn't sunk in that I was in the middle of the biggest Diwali party in the world. What did sink in quickly enough was how terribly out of place I was. The imbalance in terms of simple intellect and actually being a fucking somebody was graver than Nitin Gadkari's weight issues. It'll take until next year's party for some of the overawe to slide to a more manageable level.

By way of an unwritten law, I can't tell you how wild it was. Let's just say that the bartender wished he had three pairs of hands. Come to think of it, he could also have done without goggle-eyed kids demanding orange juice with the same authority as some MP/Editor/Diplomat/Thinker/Millionaire ordered a second shot of vodka.

I'll be honest, I've been blinded by the razzle-dazzle of the night and plain simple greed. I want it all, the influence, the chumminess with the best in the world at something or the other and the delightful house in Delhi's poshest locality. Just in case I haven't made it obvious enough yet – I'm a power-hungry maniac with specks of talent and an unlimited supply of sand to build castles in the air.

When I do finally get the job, I'm going to take control of my ancestral home in Hauz Khas. I'm not bluffing, you may drive down to Y-87, Hauz Khas whenever you feel like proving me wrong. Then I'm going to tear it down, along with a few other neighbours and construct a huge 4-storied villa. I'm also going to expand the lane because it just isn't wide enough to admit scores of Bentleys, Audis and the rest of them high-brow machines. Unfortunately, this will involve flattening out all the neighbours in the lane so I might as well let a bulldozer and road roller loose without caring for the consequences. The final step involves converting Gulmohar Park (that is right next door) into Gulmohar Parking Lot. Face it, Delhi won't mind losing a small little garden when it has more green patches than all of Ireland's Leprechaun population put together. With all the accessories in place to perfectly time my ascendancy, the annual parties will be spoken of until the end of time and will most definitely be broadcast to faraway galaxies by hungry news organisations from all over the universe.

The alternative is to shift the headquarters of the paper to Bombay, the city that'll always be my home, even after the Arabian Sea gulps it down without remorse within the next few years. There's no reason why Bombay shouldn't be the news capital of India, after all it is Rich Rich Rich and besides, it's my hometown. And that is the extent of my vision for when I'm boss. Feel free to bring me to back to stinky little Dayanand Colony whenever you feel like it.