They gathered in the stuffy chamber of the CEO's office at half past one on a windy Thursday afternoon in March with grim and serious expressions written large on their faces. Stuffy men with uncomfortable clothes and important postures clutching an array of off-colour files.

The odor of burnt and chewed tobacco laced with dried sweat and fermented betel nuts lent a distinct unpleasantness to an air already clouded with a dozen sulking opinions. This was an emergency meeting after all. And the issue at hand was indeed egregious.

The paper was at stake. The right to publish the town's weekly paper with its 4 pages of semi-intelligible gibberish and 10 times the accompanying number of spelling and printing errors, which had a circulation of approximately 500 copies, and which earned a weekly profit of more or less 200 Rupees, was at stake. It was truly tragic, ladies and gentlemen. The mood of the meeting, the tone of the discussions, the gravity of speech, the choice of words.

Even the paper itself. I know all this because I endured two hours and two cups of badly brewed tea along with a lungful of acrid nicotinous smoke before I realized that none of this really concerned me. And so, with a prolonged look at my watch, and a forced look of regretful belatement, I mumbled an apology and did a quick about turn towards the exit.

Emergency meeting notice no. 14/KTC/KAW/04 had destresca anxius written ominously all over it. I fell into the category of "special invitee" by default. The notice was addressed to the Boss, but since I was the only one getting off work early, and since I'm such a nice guy, and because the Boss is always right, I found myself taking the shortcut to the meeting venue with 10 minutes to spare.

In retrospect, I needn't have bothered. I could have sneaked back to the house for an afternoon siesta. Or made myself a nice cup of tea and parked myself in front of ESPN. No one would have noticed me in the corner seat shuffling about and fretting and fuming in silent expostulation. Or scribbling words like 'daft feather-brained twits', 'Crassus crapulentus krappe' and 'what the h___ am I doing here?' on a legal sized sheet. No pun intended, and no one noticed, really. And so I did what every right-minded person does when occupied with questions which do not concern him. I politely sat down and pretended to hear and understand. I also drank tea.

The fuss was all about the Kanggui Awgin, a weekly production which roughly equals to the total value of a school magazine - only when combined annually, and which is mostly an entirely forgettable exercise in literary ambiguity. The lesser said about it the better, and in any case, it does not have too many intelligible words within it in the first place. It exists mainly as a hobby pursued by those who have too much time on their hands and nothing to show for it. But it is tolerated nevertheless by this laid back town. It is tolerated because there are so very few sources of amusement, and simply because there is no other choice of identifiable reading material.

One would assume that the paper would continue to bore and confound us without contest. But when you put two super egos in the form of the Youth Club (YC) and the Town Committee (TC) in between a Managing Committee (MC) and add the magic word of "Govt. grant" or one-way money, and mix in good old fashioned greed and conceit, the picture does get a bit complicated.

You see, the YC first started the paper, got bored with it, did nothing about it, and the paper went quiet for a while. No one really complained, but the TC then stepped in, took over the paper, gave it to the MC, who ran a few editions, got equally bored, and were probably contemplating a Pontius-Pilate-handwash, until one fine day when the prospect of the paper actually making a profit enlightened their collective intellects.

Suddenly, almost overnight, everyone in ego land wanted to be a publisher. After all, it's not everyday that the Govt. gives you an opportunity to buy offset presses and computers and stuff with money only you know how you'll spend.

And so, the YC wanted the paper back; the MC said no; the TC tried to take the middle path, found none, and hence, the emergency meeting. Confused? So am I. I'm still figuring this one out. And it's not really worth it anyway. Just a piece of paper which no one reads twice, or even once. Even in this town.

The meeting began with a grave declaration of intent.
'The paper must go on. Even under another name.' the chairman announced.
'But what shall we call it?'
'Kanggui Express!'
'Kanggui Vadung!'
"We'll discuss it in the next emergency meeting!" the chairman exclaimed
'Kangpokpi Shining!'
'But…….'

A tardy ring tone breaks the deadlock. It jangles out something which sounds suspiciously like a Nintendo Donkey Kong version1.2. All eyes shift greenly to the proud owner of a laminated mobilis megaphone, who spits out a mouthful of Kwa and answers the call in equally repugnant fashion.

'I'm in a meeting,' he sputters.
Thank god for the lamination.
'Yes, yes, emerjenshee! And where did you keep my Raja?'
The first round of tea arrives. It looks and tastes at least 15 hours old, but etiquette and modesty prevent me from refusing it. One down. Two to go. The name-calling continues.

'We must form a committee and get the paper registered', another voice affirms importantly.
'But what about this one?'
'It must be dissolved'
'And what about the new committee?'
'We'll discuss it in the next meeting!'

At this point, I begin to wonder where all this is heading. The only logical outcome of this meeting would be another meeting, and an exact repeat of this meeting would carry over to the next, and the one after that. I will not be attending any of those meetings. Most definitely not. My brain scrambles to search for the most unobvious excuses and alibis. Tooth ache, stomach ache, back ache, head ache, fever, cold, India-Pakistan match. Taken already. I can't decide. Better wait for the next meeting.

The TC, YC and MC members, like the people of many other small towns, think themselves of the utmost importance, and every member present at the meeting felt himself bound, heart and soul, to stand up and deliver a spirit-stirring monologue. Ghastly spirit, that is, if you're neither shaken nor stirred by either the topic or the length of the speech. The YC was conspicuously absent, and so, the remaining cavalieres took turns in standing up and delivering heaping indignations of a most intense variety on the opposition.

'We revived the paper and now they want it back. What irony!' the first speaker erupts.

A dozen heads nod and grunt in approval. Not wanting to be left out, I too join in the head shaking and mmmming.
'We will show them we mean business. We will run the paper as a business!'
Another round of nods and grunts. My head shakes in tandem while my mind nods in the opposite direction. Business? Can't say I can relate the paper to any worthwhile business. Except the bikriwallah paper bag and packing kind.

The first speaker ends his tirade and revels in it, absolutely delighted with himself for having made a vital contribution to all forms of progressive philosophical thought. Not wanting to be left outsaid and outdone, the next member of the faculty of wise men extricates himself slowly from his plastic chair with a puff of gray smoke, and then begins to repeat what the first speaker just said. With one exceptional remark:

'Let us all own the paper as our very own.'

One for all and all for one. A socialist base with a capitalist drive. Sound theory, but never really works. Everybody wants to see the money first. In God, town, committee and paper we trust. Rest strictly cash.

The stand-up-and-speak the same thing musical chairs continue. Someone mentions something about the internet. I forget which one. Probably the one who owns this office, and has done wonders for himself through it, but I'm not sure. Something about news and reports and stories and other cool stuff to print.

An interesting idea. Provided you find a news service provider in the local dialect of choice. Or a language conversion software to make the required translations. Both prospects look at least 20 years away in the making. And with an average of 5 meetings per month to discuss its finer points, and given that 5 times 12 equals…………You do the math.

The second round of tea arrives. It now looks and tastes 17 hours old. Two down. Time to go. I time my move carefully. Just as the current orator repeator winds up and sits down, and before the next speaker stands to bewilder, I jump the line. Clearing my throat of recycled tea, I rise to the occasion.

'If you will please excuse me, I have a rather urgent business to attend!' I exclaim with a long and more than necessarily serious glance at my watch. I'm not lying. After two hours and two cups of tea, my bladder can't take it anymore.

'I understand your predicament, and assure you of our fullest co-operation towards the welfare of the paper.' That means I'll pay the 5 rupees per week and use the paper to line my kitchen cupboards and shelves. And also wrap the occasional parcel, vegetable or book.

'Please do inform us about the next meeting in advance.' So that I can skip town, or suddenly develop an acute case of pyrexia dyslexia.

'Thank you for inviting me as a special invitee.' And also for the "special" tea. I really felt special. Especially bored, and especially thrilled, now that I was finally leaving.

Having said that, I sprang towards the exit. The outside of a door has never looked so assuring.