Not everyone’s a “presstitute”

People getting the vicious satisfaction of seeing so many “presstitutes” (their words, not mine) lose their jobs have very little understanding of how newsrooms and media houses are run. All media houses have editorial policies and every employee – no matter how high or low – has to follow that policy. It’s either that or his/her job.

All those who lost their jobs in the latest round of retrenchments were lower and middle-level employees who were simply making a living. They were workers in the printing departments, district correspondents, mofussil reporters and photographers. None of them were the decision-makers.

How many of those who were perched on the top of the industry ladder or were decision-makers were handed out pink. slips? For that matter, how many highly paid editors lost their jobs? I am pretty sure, NONE.

Like a lot of other lower and middle class people around the country who take the bus or the train to work every morning these people too slog to put food on the table, pay for their kids’ education through school and college, look after their aged parents, and wonder every day what will happen to their families if something were to happen to them. What is the fault of a photographer in a small town who rides on his scooter every day looking for the perfect photograph that will fetch him a pittance? And if the editor of the newspaper tells him he cannot supply that photograph to anyone else. he will have to scour the city for another perfect picture to supply to his next client. All this, just so that he can make a living. I know of stringers living in villages who are still paid per word. Imagine being paid Rs 300 or Rs 500 per article and have just two pieces appear every month. And for many, that is their only source of income.

I’ll give you my own example. I began working in a newspaper in 1985 and today I am embarrassed to say that if it hadn’t been an ancestral property from my maternal side, which we sold to buy a 3BHK, I wouldn’t be able to afford my own home on my salary.

Honestly, there is no such thing as a free press. As an Assistant Editor did I have the right to decide what stories we should use in the newspaper? No I didn’t. Yes, I could make a judgement call on a story that came in late at night, but even there the editorial policy was sacrosanct. I couldn’t just take a story that praised Rajiv Gandhi just because I liked him. I had to keep in mind that my newspaper didn’t believe in praising anyone.

Between 2000 and 2005, I worked for a newspaper that was going national with a vengeance. Did I have the right to decide on the kind of stories I could take? No, again. In neither of the two cities where I headed the news desk, could we carry anything that could hurt the ruling dispensation. Instructions were handed down to us on the kind of stories we could use. We couldn’t speak against the State government because it could hurt the business interests of the media house. Any stories that were against the State or the CM had to be vetted by the editorial department in Delhi.

Resident Editors at most of these mofussil editions are nothing but glorified bureau chiefs. Do they have the authority to take decisions on any stories that were inimical to the State government? Your guess is as good as mine.

There are stifling restrictions vis-à-vis reporting on stories that were inimical to the interests of the owners, various individuals or groups. Time and again, stories are killed or watered down for one reason or another. One cannot do a story about the corrupt practices of politicians…One cannot report on a fraudulent scheme run by a big business house… There were so many such instances.

I remember one story that we had in our pocket. It could have shaken the particular state government. The reporters put their heart into the story. It was a perfect story with not one fact missing, including the names of the big-time politicians involved in a huge scam. It went to HQ for approval. That was the last we saw of the story. When it finally appeared you wouldn’t have known if it was from some state of the Indian Union, or Timbuctoo. Why was the story watered down? Because the management was worried that publication of the story would have jeopardised its business interests. Would you blame the reporter for this? Of course not, but when it comes to cost-cutting that poor kid will be the first to go.

A former editor who I had worked with for a short while, lost his job because he wrote something against a chief minister. The chief minister wasn’t satisfied with the fact that the editor in question had been removed from his post, and wanted him out of the organisation, and he was hounded out. And it wasn’t as if the CM in question was clean as a whistle.

Some years ago a senior editor of a well-known newspaper, during another such retrenchment drive, told me that many of the senior staff who were being laid off by a media house had, in fact, been hired on fat salaries only to ensure they would not write stories that harmed the group’s business interests. Now that keeping these people on board was proving costly they were being shown the door!

While I agree that running a newspaper is big business and not social service anymore, someone in the higher echelons of power has to take a stand. That is something a lot of newspaper establishments never do. And that is where the lower- and middle-level employees suffer. And not just the journalists.

It’s sad, really, because journalists, photographers, DTP operators, designers, and all those involved with the business of publishing a newspaper have nothing to do with the policies formulated by the management. They are just small cogs in the big wheel, but they are the first to be sacrificed when it is time for the management to cut its losses. Think of the poor machine operator in the printing press. All he does is run the machinery that prints the newspaper. Is he a “presstitute”? Can he be blamed for the editorial policies of a newspaper? For all you know, the guy is a Modi supporter.

When The Telegraph announced there would be retrenchments I called a former colleague now working in that newspaper. He was just one of the senior editors, a family man, with wife, aged parents, and a teenaged daughter, doing his job to the best of his abilities. He was understandably worried that he might lose his job. I could feel the worry in his voice and I felt sorry for him. I haven’t had the courage since that day to call him to ask if he still has a job.

After three decades in the media I can honestly say that I have seen many of those in my profession give their blood, sweat and tears for a job which at the end of the day, gave back very little in terms of monetary recompense. None of these people were presstitutes. They just followed orders handed down to them by people who decided on how a story should be done, why, and who to target. Those guys are still around and prospering.

Cheer up, things can only get worse!

I am depressed, very depressed. There is so much cynicism all round. It’s difficult to take anything at face value. As journalists we have been mentally tuned to disbelieve anything we are told. Often, that penchant for taking with a pinch of salt anything we are told, has transgressed from our professional lives into our personal.

You can’t really blame people for feeling the way they do. The ordinary citizen is getting squeezed for his last rupee while the corrupt politician is busy raking it in. The ordinary citizen is paying his taxes and then he finds the government blowing it away in daft populist schemes that are only going to increase the burden on the tax-payer.

Of all the hair-brained schemes (MGNREGA, Aadhaar?) this UPA government has come up with, the Food Security Bill has to be the stupidest. I don’t say this because I have any antipathy against the poor and the downtrodden, but because I am convinced that not even five per cent of those living below the poverty line will benefit from this idiotic scheme.

Just like the funds meant for NREGA are being siphoned away by the contractors, the food meant for the poor will be forcibly taken away by the landlords, hoarders and black marketers and sold at double the price in the open market. The worms in white Gandhi caps and their cohorts will steal even the rice that the government promises to give to the poor for three bucks. That is their mentality and that will never change. Scum they are, and scum they remain.

It doesn’t take an Einstein to understand that the Food Security Bill is just a squalid vote-grabbing exercise. No government scheme for the poor since Independence has helped improve their living standards, and neither will this. The PDS is a good example.

There is another troubling fact. Where are we going to find the funds to feed so many? If one heard Sonia Gandhi, it would seem to the whole country that it is not her problem what happens to the tax-payer. The implication in her speech was clear. She needs the money to buy the votes and if she has to ram more taxes down the throat of the tax-paying citizen, so be it. And all this when her son-shady in-law is busy making crores through even shadier deals! So can you really expect the middle class taxing paying voter to trust this government, anymore? More importantly, can you expect them not to be cynical?

And it is not just silly schemes that are leading to this all round depression. In 2008, Mumbai was attacked by a bunch of Pakistanis. Yup, never mind the cock and bull story about “irregulars”. They were Pakistanis and they waded in and set the ‘maximum city’ on fire. The Centre and the State promised a lot to make its citizens feel more secure. Then there were more bomb blasts. We were again told that the State government would (metaphorically speaking) stand on its head to ensure the safety of citizens. Then some idiots with backpacks blew up the German Bakery, killing seventeen people who were probably enjoying their Chocolate Latte or Mocha or whatever. More promises. Then the bombs went off on Jangli Maharaj Road. More promises. If that wasn’t enough, the Pakistani Army kept up its relentless barrage of gunfire on the border, pushing in terrorists into India. And Manmohan Singh and his Cabinet keep telling us that all is well. In this situation, expecting the honest tax-paying citizen not be depressed and cynical is asking a lot of him.

Even an earnest 21-year-old asking for help is looked upon with disdain. This young girl, who teaches in a school for children of the economically weaker sections, sent me an email a week ago to ask me whether, firstly, I could find a journalist to address a bunch of 11-14 year-old from her school on what the future holds for them, and secondly whether she could bring them over to our office to show them what the inside of a newspaper office looks like.

My first response: What does a 14 year-old know about journalism? I was just being me – cynical and condescending.

Another email from her turned the whole issue on its head. It won me over: “…8th is an extremely crucial year as that is currently when free education stops. If the kids and their parents aren’t invested enough in the idea of education to pay for a private school, they may drop out. So, because of the limited opportunities the kids already face, we start conversations about achievement, college and opportunities with even a 3rd grade class. Most of my students haven’t ever seen an office of any sort, and apart from what I have told them, have no knowledge as to how a newspaper works. So, I think that this would be pretty beneficial for them.”

Her earnestness won me over. I personally offered to talk to the children at her school and also got an immediate approval from the Editor to show them around the office. And then I thought… if the poor children from this school can actually get out of the cycle of deprivation and poverty and make a better life for themselves, it would be a fitting reply to the idiotic schemes launched by this government for the poor – ones that would only end up making beggars of them, instead of giving them a better life.

So cheer up, things can only get worse from here on…!

On the uncouth Indian airline passenger, and a wedding…

It is time institutes that groom youngsters to become airline crew also start a course on basic etiquettes for airline passengers. We must be among the most uncouth, illiterate passengers anywhere and could do with some basic training on how to behave once inside an airliner.

On both Indigo flights, to and from Kolkata, the people who travelled by them made we wonder whether we really deserve to fly. Most passengers are mentally still in the passenger train age! I read an update on Facebook from a friend, Huned Contractor, who asked why Indian flyers take a little walk down the aisle and go to the bathroom after the ‘fasten your seat belt’ indicator has blinked on.

I guess it has a lot to do with the fact that money may bring you luxury, it doesn’t necessarily breed class. It’s the typical Indian attitude – “I am paying for the flight so I have the right to treat the services and people at my disposal like dirt.” It is like the rich, but uncouth Indian who checks into hotels, uses foul language and shouts at staff if he finds something amiss in the room. There were times, during my stint at a hotel, when I felt my sticking my middle finger into a guest’s face who misbehaved!

I was astonished to see how many people popped out of their seats to take a leak the minute stewardess announced that we were about to land. If they held on for two hours couldn’t they hold on for another 15 minutes? But, no, they had to rush off and queue up before the toilets, hopping from one foot to another, till they were told to get back to their seats. When we were kids, we were told to go to the loo before getting into bed. I guess some people just haven’t outgrown that.

Then, when the ‘switch off electronic devices ‘ sign came on, I saw people merrily chatting on their mobiles, even after the stewardess asked them to shut it off. And lastly there is a rush for the exit as soon as the aircraft taxies to a stop. Most people who travel by air either have their drivers or family pick them up or take a pre-paid taxi. Luggage is usually travelling on the conveyor belt by the time we reach the arrival lounge. So what is the tearing hurry? I guess that is the train passenger’s mentality that still hasn’t been conditioned to fly. Take the way in which passengers get into the airport bus that ferries them to the aircraft. They’ll all crowd around the entrance instead of making place for the others who are getting in – like they might get left behind!

I remember, this Sikh gentleman once on a flight from Pune to Delhi who was up and standing near the front exit even as the plane’s wheels touched the tarmac. The air hostess marched up to him and sternly ordered him back to his seat. He stood his ground, till she raised her voice. No male likes being ticked off by a woman in public, so he slid back in his seat! But the minute the aircraft stopped he jumped up and dashed off towards the rear exit!

So are the institutes listening? Please teach us how to behave on an airplane!

I was in Kolkata on a three-day break  to attend a student’s wedding. I try to avoid weddings. Even the ones which my wife drags me to, I go with great reluctance, because firstly, I get bored out of my skull and secondly the food at most Maharashtrian weddings is standard – not that I have anything against it, actually I quite relish the ‘Masala bhaat’ – but the rest of the stuff is too bland for my tastes! And then making small talk with people who I hardly know is a bit much.

However, in the present case, I went because the student threatened to lynch me if I didn’t attend. I know she didn’t mean it, but when someone asks me with such ‘sincerity’, I don’t like to act pricey. She was also among my brighter students who was genuinely interested in pursuing journalism as a career. I guess I owed her, at least, that much.

There is another student who is mad at me because I didn’t show up for her wedding in January. In her case, there were extraneous circumstances related to work which stopped me. But then who asks, why! They let itchy fingers do the talking on a social networking platform. And I am not going to reply. Also, I honestly don’t remember whether she even sent me an invite for the wedding, although I did see it put up on Facebook.

As for Kolkata, just briefly, the city has improved from the last time I was there over two decades ago, for the wedding of a friend, who said she didn’t think I cared enough to show up! I did meet some Bengalis who didn’t have too many nice things to say about Mamata Banerjee. They were shocked when I said I was sorry for her, because she was up against all the male chauvinists in the Left Front! I then added that the Leftists were still smarting at the thrashing they got at the hustings. I just love getting under people’s skin! She might not last another term but then neither have the Leftists done much for the State in all those years of systematic rigging that kept them in power.

Losing the human touch

How technology has changed our lives! We remember birthdays, wedding anniversaries and other such dates, mostly because we see them mentioned on social networking sites that we frequent. If we don’t see them we probably won’t remember. But there was a time when we functioned better without technology.

Around twenty years ago, I was one of those who sent out greeting cards to people on every Diwali, Christmas and New Year. I had watched my mom and aunt do that year after year almost like it was a ritual. When I grew up, I too carried forward that tradition. I would send out cards irrespective of whether I received even a thank you. There would be some who would call and thank, but most didn’t bother. I really didn’t mind that, because I believed it was the thought that mattered.

Sometime in the mid 1990s – think it was 1995 – I decided not to send New Year and X’mas cards to anyone. I wanted to see how many people would remember that I hadn’t. Exactly three did! And those three called up to ask why. Since that year I stopped sending out greetings cards! Now in spite of the Internet, which makes life so much easier, I still don’t send out greetings because I believe that it is all so meaningless. I make an exception with birthdays. Of course, now with Facebook, we know the birthdays of half the world – at least those in our small world! So simple isn’t it, to type out those half a dozen words? There have been times, however, when some of the people haven’t bothered to respond. I guess, advances in technology notwithstanding, human behaviour will remain irrational!

Since I joined Facebook a few years ago I have steadily built up my friend’s list that comprise family, friends and students. I would invariably be greeted online on my birthday. Sometime, last year I decided to remove the mention of my birth date (March 29) from Facebook. I wanted to see how many people remembered. This time on my birthday I went to the college for a lecture and about half a dozen students wished me! The rest had no clue. Two of them I remember distinctly, because over the heads in the melee after a class they mouthed the words ‘happy Birthday’ to me. It’s nice of them to have remembered. A couple of childhood friends and a friend from Chandigarh, also sent me their wishes, but by and large no one knew. Let me be very honest, I wouldn’t remember birthdays unless I saw them mentioned on Facebook, so I didn’t expect anyone to remember mine. That’s how dependent we’ve become on technology!

However, this evening, technology took another strange twist. I suddenly thought of a journalist and friend I hadn’t seen on Facebook for a while. I read his tweets and his status updates regularly. He and I had gotten to know each other a little some years ago, when I was looking for a foothold in journalism and he was looking for a job out of Kolkata, and if possible in Pune. He was also looking for someone to proofread his book. I offered to go through it. I don’t know what happened to the book, but I dissuaded him from coming to Pune because there was nothing here for someone as senior. I didn’t know of his reasons then for taking such a step. I learnt about them sometime in November last year when we were chatting on Facebook.

In December and then in January I was caught up with my new job and we lost touch. This evening, I suddenly wondered where he was and searched for him on Facebook. I couldn’t find his page. Then something made me type out his name on google and the first link that popped up was a piece about him on a news portal that said, he had passed away following a cardiac arrest on January 22.

Always The Editor

When I began my career in journalism with the Maharashtra Herald in 1985, the one person I ‘feared’ was my editor S.D. Wagh. I think it was his demeanour that scared the crap out of me or probably the fact that he was THE EDITOR. Since he did not know me, we hardly spoke and that was what was scary. When I introduced myself to him in his cabin, he just nodded. No other introductions! So to me he was an unknown quotient and to be kept at a safe distance. We joked that when the lion (wagh) came out of his den, just keep away.

But as I grew in my job and got promoted my interactions with Mr Wagh also grew. By the time I was a senior sub editor, I had to work on page 1 and that was where I observed him closely. Like all editors, if he decided that a story had to appear, IT DID. No amount of cajoling or pleading helped. His word was final. Mr Wagh also believed bylines were to be earned, unlike today when they are flung around like confetti at weddings.

All through his tenure at the MH he was always THE EDITOR and that line was never crossed, either by him or by us. While he was friendly with the editorial staff he was never the kind to get personal. He even occasionally asked one of us to accompany him for a cup of tea, but the distance was always there.

As some of us – Babu, Joe, Roger, Sudheer and I – prospered under Mr Wagh to take on senior roles, we came to understand how the lion’s brain ticked. Every evening we would decide the ledes for the day and wait for him to show up after his evening walk. We would wait as he went through the stories. At the end of the exercise we would be smiling, because our choices invariably tallied! Once he understood that we had developed a semblance of news sense, he often left us to decide the stories, but God forbid if we missed one.

On one occasion, when a very senior reporter submitted his copy, Mr Wagh asked me for a red pen. Then flipping through the six-odd pages he ran the red pen through them. Soon the pages were a mass of red as he slashed the story from six pages to roughly two. I was watching the reporter turning from distressed to extremely annoyed, to hopping mad! He too first pleaded and then demanded that he be allowed to retain the entire copy. But Mr. Wagh just looked up at him and said very quietly, “That’s all there is in the story.”

“And I won’t use it like this,” the reporter snapped. Mr Wagh, just shrugged and flipped the copy over his shoulder. The story didn’t end there. The next day the reporter re-typed a two-page report and filed it!

He was also not the kind who paid compliments at the drop of a hat. On one occasion he called me to his cabin and asked me to do an editorial on Jennifer Capriati. The young US tennis star had cracked from the pressure of becoming the youngest US Open tennis champion and was found in a hotel room stoned out of her mind. She was the most celebrated case of a burnout in those days. After the editorial appeared he called me in to this cabin and said, “Wonderful piece, it seems it’s written from the heart.” I remember this incident because this was one of the few occasions he complimented my writing!

He was also rarely cowed down by threats and warnings. For years he had been receiving threats and once had almost been assaulted by angry Sikhs during a peace march in Pune, for an editorial in the MH supporting the army action on the Golden Temple. He told us that the Police Commissioner had advised him against walking past some ‘sensitive’ localities after the editorial appeared, but he refused to heed the warning.

The day Gen Arunkumar Vaidya was shot in Pune by terrorists was a day like none other for Puneites. And it wasn’t any different for us at MH. Within 30 minutes of the shooting, our office was swarming with cops toting automatic rifles. A news agency had received a letter which stated that Mr. Wagh was the next target. While we all joked that ‘Waghoba’ had become famous and some of us were even worried (exaggeratedly) about our lives, the man himself was planning to take his customary evening walk completely unmindful of any threats! I think that evening, if the commandos had not barred his way he would have done it too!

When he retired from the MH we all gave him an affectionate send-off and though we bumped into him occasionally, he never came to the office again. I left MH in 1998 and moved on to greener pastures and never heard from him or of him again. He may have been an ‘ordinary’ editor to many, but he was the first newspaper editor I worked under, and one I was always in awe of.

Last evening I learnt from a former colleague at the MH that Mr Wagh had suffered a cardiac arrest and passed away, at his home in Malvan in Sindhudurg. In today’s day and age when editors are appointed according to the ‘market’ their papers are sold in, S.D. Wagh was the quintessential journalist editor.