Unzipping the netting I clambered into the womb like structure of my bed. The mosquito net was a life saver, literally. Now I could relax, India could not reach me.

The air conditioning unit was on, although at a more sensible setting now I had sort of acclimatised. The air purifier purred in the corner. Its neon blue eyes peering at me through the darkness. No mosquitos would feed on this exotic delicacy tonight.

It was mid April and the temperature was rising again. I closed my eyes and began to sort through the day’s events, trying to make sense of some of the randomness of news in India. Train crashes, brutal rapes, stunning festivals, collapsed buildings - any or all of these things could and did happen daily.

What was I going to have for breakfast tomorrow? I had poha today and fancied it again tomorrow. A savoury flattened rice dish, washed down with masala chai. I’d order a flask full so I could share it with my colleagues. I enjoyed this because it gave me an opportunity to have a bit of craic before the daily onslaught began.

The Pulitzers… I remembered that they were to be announced at some point during the night. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I was woken up to be told we’d won? I allowed myself a few seconds to savour the idea. I had a last trawl through the news sites to make sure nothing major had happened and set my phone on the pillow next to me. I had to put it there as the net formed a complete seal around the bed and I didn’t want to miss any calls from bosses in other time zones.

I can’t remember the exact time, but I was fast asleep when the vibrations woke me. I looked at the name on my screen. It was my chief. I immediately cleared my throat and sat up in the darkness. The white light of the screen blinding me as I hit accept.

“Cathal, we have won. Congratulations we have won the Pulitzer!” I went in to auto pilot as I heard only bits of the conversation – “Great achievement for us all….important story and pictures….thank you.” End call.

The room was dark again, apart from the blue neon in the corner by the patio doors. Silence.

“Fucccccccccccking Yessssssss!” I shouted into the darkness. Not the most profound statement I’ve made, but definitely a true reflection of my mood. I punched into black void. I(we) had been awarded a Pulitzer Prize for our coverage of the Rohingya Genocide.

My nose started to feel burny. Like when you got hit in the face with a ball when you were a wee kid. Water gathered in my eyes. It had been a tough couple of years. I’d separated from my wife and left her and my son back In Ireland. I’d arrived in India with one bag. It contained clothes and one cup. The only possession I had any sentimental attachment too. I effectively had sacrificed relationships with family and friends to get here. And here I was, on my own with nobody to share the realisation of a dream.

My girlfriend was out of town and uncontactable so I couldn’t ring her. I needed to tell someone. There was no way I was going back to sleep. I scrambled out through the net, careful to zip it straight up behind me. Always important to keep your sanctuary safe.

I pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and made my way out of the bedroom across the marble tiled floor to the straw-coloured sofa in the corner of the large open plan room.

Opening up the laptop I called my dad. He was still up and answered the video call almost immediately. I explained what the Pulitzer was and could see the smile spread across his face.

My parents have supported my career from the shaky beginnings as a floppy haired 16-year-old and, as with any of my achievements, this was as much for them.

Even in this unrehearsed moment, I realised that this was a story I was going to tell many times in the future.

“What did you do when you got the news?” people would ask. “Well,” I would say. “I rang my father and opened a bottle of Irish whiskey and shared stories of past failures and victories and got a bit pissed.”

That’s exactly what I did.

Pulitzers and Whiskey Part 1