watching me closely as he continued. I tried to look impressed at his logic as well as amused at how I could not have made such a logical connection myself. I am smart enough to know he was watching for body language, trying to come to a decision, perhaps even reconsidering a decision he had previously made.
My awareness that I had made a foolish mistake, that I had sailed my little boat called Hope straight back into the storm, did not help my confidence.
"We have a duty, as journalists," he continued, "to inform the public of what is really going on. What we see is not everything."
I was fully attentive now - the obedient student, in full agreement. I had to at least try to turn the impression of foolishness I had created.
"We have to delve," he continued, warming to his cause, "uncover the real motives behind the actions. American and European missionaries come over here, fly into a poor area in a helicopter, make great promises to the illiterate untouchables, promising gifts if they convert. And what does a conversion cost them?"
"Twelve dollars."
He nodded, I think a little pleased that I knew.
"Twelve dollars. And when they go back to America, having washed their hands with disinfectant, they tell their people they had thousands of converts. And the people are so impressed they give them money, hundreds, thousands for each conversion. It's very good business."
He paused, turning to the window now and staring out over the sea of building block houses typical of Indian cities, as if he could see past them to the vast array of scattered humanity beyond, the rural villages of India.
"But here, back in the village, confusion. The new converts insult their neighbours. They no longer observe the age-old traditions, the festivals, the sacrifices. The people fear as a result that the land will not deliver its food or the rains won't come. Families are split apart. Societal disintegration."
I waited for him to turn, but he remained staring out into the distance. I didn't want to let the opportunity pass, so I spoke.
"I'm very much in agreement, Sir."
He turned back to the desk.
"The law states that no person shall convert another by force, allurement or fraudulent means."
He planted his finger onto one of my photos.
"Some of these people, for sure. And why? We don't need more religion in India. We have plenty religion", he said, rolling his eyes but also glancing towards his incense holder and the image of a deity on the bookshelf. "Is it just business? There are other ways to make money."
I saw my opportunity. This was an area in which I felt some confidence. I leaned forward in my seat eagerly, matching the passion in his voice.
"The missionaries are the forerunners of capitalism, Sir. They target the poor and the illiterate. They promise wealth and then come the jobs in factories - cheap labour for producing consumer goods for the West. Or for those who can read, call centres. I've written about it. It's in my portfolio, Sir. The missionaries are used to prepare the way for the spread of western imperialism and the further enrichment of the West."
I began to feel hopeful again. Mishra's head was nodding gently.
"And we need to prevent that from happening here," he said slowly. "I like your work, Banerjee, very much"
Oh, how my emotions rolled, but Roshan Mishra was no fool. He had not achieved his position through family connections, but sheer hard work and smart decisions. He was not about to take any risks for my sake.
"I'll be very happy to consider you for a permanent position."
It took a moment for the realisation to sink in, and the disappointment. I was still freelance with no assurance of income. I tried to think how to persuade him, how to react, but the acute disappointment and my desperation overwhelmed my senses as Mishra continued, easing himself back into his comfortable and large office chair.
"I suggest you locate yourself in the town of Baripada. There's opportunity, along the lines we've been talking about. A foreign missionary resides there...
I then made the second mistake of that interview, sailing back against the wind, interrupting him and confirming for Mishra that he had made the right decision.
"Sir, I came all this way, with my wife, on the basis of your letter." I even waved his letter at him.
"Oh, recently married?"
I was immediately on my guard. I nodded; he pretended passing interest, but it was more than that.
"She must be young."
I smiled, not committing either way.
"And beautiful, of course."
Again, I smiled. My senses were on high alert. I would not be drawn on the subject of my wife - Mishra did not need to know anything about her, even if it was only polite interest. He let it pass and returned to the subject of my employment.
"And as I said in my letter, we need someone of your calibre. But it'll be freelance for a few months at least."
"Freelance doesn't guarantee any income, Sir. I will not disappoint you. I came to Orissa for this position."
"And I need to justify your employment to my superiors. You are young. Inexperienced."
He was not just talking about me as a journalist. I controlled my disappointment, finally. Mishra seemed to relent, or perhaps he saw an opening.
"Listen to me. Baripada offers opportunity. We are planning to open an office there, just as soon as we can..." he paused, choosing his word, "acquire the right land to build on. That will mean possible promotion."
Now I was listening. He continued, lowering his voice for emphasis.
"The missionary I just mentioned - he's been there a long time. He's hard to pin down, that one. You bring me evidence of his illegal conversions and you will have your permanent position. I'll even loan you a decent camera."
He lifted that impressive looking camera, the one that now hung around my neck, from a drawer in his desk, holding it up like a trophy ready for the taking.
"Well?"
"If there's evidence, I'll find it, Sir."
"Then soon you'll be on permanent staff."
And so it was that we found ourselves on the bus to Baripada.
I was itching to start digging for dirt, to find the evidence that would secure me the coveted employment and make me a journalist whose articles leapt to the front page, but one has to eat and sleep and so does one's wife.
First we needed lodging and were fortunate to find a two- roomed, mud-brick home with a roof in need of new thatching, a remnant of a village that had been subsumed by Baripada's growth. The dusty path leading to the front door would be mud in the rainy season, and the roof would leak, but I planned to have moved well before then. All I needed was evidence of an illegal conversion; how hard could that be?
As it happened, I did not have to wait long to encounter the missionary
