Ginvivitis

Gingivitis is the word. Go.

Ginga was a girl with many passions.

She worked for a newspaper as a reporter, but she edited stories also because she liked doing it. She went to the orphanage every weekend to give away food and used cloths she had collected over the week. She was an astute political satirist, and on several occasions had penned the paper's political cartoon when the resident cartoonist couldn't make it.

Her job began at three in the afternoon. To keep herself occupied in the mornings, she went to a language class and a dance class. She had tried learning Pashtun, but she couldn't get the books, so she was now studying Farsi. She thought that Farsi went particularly well with Salsa, which she was learning. She had originally enrolled into modern dance, but after discovering it was full of  middle-aged office managers coaxed into dancing by their nagging wives, she realized she would rather dance with college students.

When Somesh called at three in the morning, she was not particularly worried -- it was the third time in two months. The front page would have to be changed, Somesh said, there had been a breaking news. The paper would go to the press in an hour. She would have to do the edits from home, right away.

This was one of the several occasions when Ginga thought she'd rather have gingivitis than the work at hand. She knew she wouldn't be getting any credit if she got this right, but everything would be on if something--anything at all--went wrong. She sighed, turned her laptop on, and glanced at the leading story.

King Birendra, the Queen, the Princes, Princesses, and 15 other close members of the royal family had been assassinated.