THE UNJUSTIFIABLE CRIME

 THE UNJUSTIFIABLE CRIME

 

I waited for Sundays the entire week, when I would be at the studios, behind the microphone, broadcasting over the airwaves. The studio felt like my kingdom, and the seat was my throne. I was the undisputed ruler and the greatest broadcaster: the Melville Demello of broadcasting. Some even called me Zabbas: the new age Ameen Sayani, the undisputed ruler. The sweet girls at the Times even gave me the title “the father of broadcasting”, which had gone to my head, but I felt proud. I understood my tremendous reach and power to shape opinions, influence, and dominate.

 

“Good evening, listeners…” I began, my voice crackling over the airwaves, steady and commanding. “This is your host for the most Zabbas…for the next hour, we will talk about the buzz in the campus.” I quickly put the fader up for the song “Night Train” by Kadoc as I scanned my script gathered from my sources: government contacts, press, and loyal college juniors, all feeding me the latest gossip. This evening, I intended to target John, the new kid in town.

 

I’ve heard a few whispers about him from residents of the Bengali colony where I was residing. He was a bit too smart and confident, maybe a little too confident. He needed to learn who ran this place and town, and I was just the person to teach him.

 

“Word has it, “I continued, my tone dripping with sarcasm and scorn, “that we have a new superstar and prince. John, the wonder kid, right? Fresh from where ever it is he came from. But then, what’s in a name?”  Influenced by the opinions of my friends, I immediately took a dislike for his surname. As I paused slightly for effect, I put the fader of the song “Night Train” right up again and kept it there for a few seconds before bringing it down. “But here is a little secret, folks, even superstars can fall, and this royal nawab…the big daddy will show him how. Let’s put him on a night train to hell or where ever he came from.” The beauty of it was that I said all these mockingly. Most of my listeners, I’m sure, had no clue about what I was talking about.

 

In my mind, I pictured my eager listeners, the young college kids with their not-so-young parents, hanging on to my every word. They were always keen on my broadcast. My juniors admired me and aspired to be me. These kids thought I was the pride of their college, and they knew loyalty to me meant power and protection.

 

I continued with the broadcast, “You know it’s funny how quickly you fall. One moment, you think you are the superstar, the prince, on top of the world, and in just a moment, you are nothing. You realise you are a name forgotten in the crowd. Pathetic.”

 

As I was broadcasting that night, I had no idea how far my henchmen would take my words. The plan was to shake John up a bit, to put him in his place. But things spiralled out of control. My henchmen took it a bit too far. John didn’t know what hit him.

 

Later that night, I received a frantic call from one of my college juniors: “Zabbas, I've got some terrible news. John is hurt. We….didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

 

The news hit me like a ton of bricks. “What the fucking hell happened?” I demanded, trying to sound steady.

 

“We thought we were just scaring him as we planned. But he fell and hit his head. It’s serious.”

 

I hung up, my heart racing. This wasn’t part of the plan. Indeed, I wanted to put John in his place, but not this way. I had blood on my hands. Someone then told me about John’s Irish background and powerful Irish friends. I knew I was doomed. I was a marked man.

 

As I sat alone in the studio long after the broadcast, the reality of what I had done sunk in. I had always prided myself on my gift of gab and ability to manipulate and influence, but I crossed all lines this time.

 

As I hosted the show the following Sunday, it suddenly felt unbearable. The thrill was gone, replaced by fright and guilt. My intro felt hollow. “Good evening, folks,” I began, my voice shaking.  “This is your host, Zabbas, and I’m bound for Mars, where there will be a lot of bars for lots of whiskey and rum. Surely, folks, sometimes you have to face the consequences of your actions. I’m prepared for it. It’s time I took a sabbatical.” I signed off and let the music play. The silence that followed was deafening. 

 

At home, as I gulped down a bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey and awaited my fate, it gave me a terrible kick. I puked all over myself and passed out into a dark abyss, dreaming of broadcasts and podcasts.