Calls made, no avail. Chalo. Kya karein. Faint silver liningsbeginning to appear from strange corners. I will try and follow them,see what comes out. But yaar, again that 'something's gotta give' timeis coming closer.There's something called the 'big picture' of everyone's lives. It'slike a movie. When you show people the big picture, it's fascinating,fast and inspiring. Naturally, because the director is the Master.However, like in movies, none of the actors realise how amazing themovie finally looks. To them, the making of the movie is a process oftoil, sweat and a vague image of what it might look like. That's howwe live life, bored, frustrated, angry at times, without everrealizing our place in an amazing story. I guess the trick is to sharethe Director's vsion, look at it from his Viewpoint (I love thisword). Once we learn to do that, we fast forward bredom, skip over theunpleasantness, relive the essence of the story whenever we want andget to the end whenever it comes. If only I could see the big picture.How beautiful he must have made it for me. Man, I shouldn't miss asingle second of it.
Ramble time again. Gobbledygook, rubbish, crap, nonsense, tosh, bosh,waffle, gibberish, mumbo jumbo, garbage, gabble, twaddle, claptrap,hogwash, baloney, rot, drivel, poppycock, tripe, balderdash, bullshitand horseshit. Wow, 23 words that mean the same. I think this is theonly set of synonyms that can be interchanged any which way we want.Why do you think we use so many words for it? And why do you supposethey can all be interchanged? Accessibility, my friends. Stuff andnonsense needs to be very readily accessible in today's world. Unlessyou have a good stock of bullshit, you cant survive in a corporatemadhouse. Nothing but tripe can get you out of a tight corner.Gibberish and balderdash will help you keep low, crap and rot will getyou momentary notice. Gabble and twaddle endears you to the fairer sex(even the dark ones) and baloney charms them. Drivel, claptrap, waffleand gobbledygook are highly helpful in the daily rigour of work andbosh, tosh and poppycock helps you bulldoze those below you. What areyou if you cant share some horseshit with the guys after work? Garbageis all around, so cant but contribute. Mumbo jumbo, however, isreserved strictly for the bigwigs. There's nothing like good mumbojumbo to impress the hell out of folks. So you see, we use so much ofit in our lives, that we just cant do without it. 70% of the humanbody is made of water, and 70% of human life is made up of…well, I'msure you know by now. It's the essence of existence, after all.
-Ananda
Monday, October 26, 2009
Hyderabad 6
A rather late start today at the ramble file. There's this funny scene in many comedy movies, where a strong man pus his palm on a little guy's head, and he keeps swinging and swinging. I can see myself doing just that. I gotta change something fundamental in my approach. Wonder what it is. RK anna said that recognizing the problems is the biggest step toward solving them. The problem is coming into focus, slowly. I'm snapping at it's heels, around the edges. Once I figure out how to tackle the strong guy, I'll be rushing faster than ever.
I wanted to write today, a couple of times. I cant remember what about, but it felt good at the moment. Oh, by the way, I got a call at 1:00 last night. You know who it was. 'I'm feeling low, I have no one else to call', she says. The next hour passed in self pity, sobbing and basically a full spectrum of sorrow from a very steady pessimistic viewpoint. I was glad to go back to sleep. Of course, she was reluctant to leave, even after 2:00. I think I'll switch my phone off tonight.
I reworked the story on the Osmania hospital today, according to another one published this morning on Niloufer. I think it fits the format boss asked for, but I'll try and give it another reading.
This is now two days later. The Osmania article fell flat on its face, then flipped over and landed on its chair with a thump. "I'm your reader, help me, don't torture me," was what boss had to say about the article. Wow.
I think I'm finally beginning to learn. Another oft heard phrase comes to mind – "put aside your ego if you want to learn." Well, since ordinary human beings cant simply put it aside, circumstances dot he job for them. The boss quite effectively decimated my ego with a few choice lines like the one in the previous paragraph. So now I'm taking a longer look at my circumstances. Changing the viewpoint, so to speak. I'm a fresher. I didn't try to hide this fact, even at the beginning, but now everyone knows it and it's been established. Like boss once confided, I have a one-month probation, by which time I'm supposed to be churning out stories like the rest of the gang. Tomorrow I will reach the two-week mark of the first month. I'm exactly one story old. Two weeks, 14 days. One story. Hmm……now, GG said my career's been made, I think. Made what? Made how? You know, logic dictates that I desire the month never to be over, but I'm awfully curious about the next phase. I can't see anything at all from where I'm standing right now. Where are the stories going to come from? Where?
I just had my lunch. After no breakfast, it was a welcome meal, but lunch brings with it its own horde of problems. I have to make two phone calls, neither of which will yield a story today. I'm so drowsy after that meal that I've decided against lunch in the future. I don't have a story for the day (again) and that in itself tenses me. So I'm really drowsy, I have this nagging feeling of something left undone and I'm tense about having no stories yet. I'm a glass of milk into which a slice of lemon has been thrown in. I'd better make those calls.
-Ananda
I wanted to write today, a couple of times. I cant remember what about, but it felt good at the moment. Oh, by the way, I got a call at 1:00 last night. You know who it was. 'I'm feeling low, I have no one else to call', she says. The next hour passed in self pity, sobbing and basically a full spectrum of sorrow from a very steady pessimistic viewpoint. I was glad to go back to sleep. Of course, she was reluctant to leave, even after 2:00. I think I'll switch my phone off tonight.
I reworked the story on the Osmania hospital today, according to another one published this morning on Niloufer. I think it fits the format boss asked for, but I'll try and give it another reading.
This is now two days later. The Osmania article fell flat on its face, then flipped over and landed on its chair with a thump. "I'm your reader, help me, don't torture me," was what boss had to say about the article. Wow.
I think I'm finally beginning to learn. Another oft heard phrase comes to mind – "put aside your ego if you want to learn." Well, since ordinary human beings cant simply put it aside, circumstances dot he job for them. The boss quite effectively decimated my ego with a few choice lines like the one in the previous paragraph. So now I'm taking a longer look at my circumstances. Changing the viewpoint, so to speak. I'm a fresher. I didn't try to hide this fact, even at the beginning, but now everyone knows it and it's been established. Like boss once confided, I have a one-month probation, by which time I'm supposed to be churning out stories like the rest of the gang. Tomorrow I will reach the two-week mark of the first month. I'm exactly one story old. Two weeks, 14 days. One story. Hmm……now, GG said my career's been made, I think. Made what? Made how? You know, logic dictates that I desire the month never to be over, but I'm awfully curious about the next phase. I can't see anything at all from where I'm standing right now. Where are the stories going to come from? Where?
I just had my lunch. After no breakfast, it was a welcome meal, but lunch brings with it its own horde of problems. I have to make two phone calls, neither of which will yield a story today. I'm so drowsy after that meal that I've decided against lunch in the future. I don't have a story for the day (again) and that in itself tenses me. So I'm really drowsy, I have this nagging feeling of something left undone and I'm tense about having no stories yet. I'm a glass of milk into which a slice of lemon has been thrown in. I'd better make those calls.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 5
Amway has a phrase…yes, 'Fired Up'. I wrote well over a thousand words today, touching up the three stories I've been working on all week. All three have come up to an extent. I now have an idea of how much work its going to take to finish every story, if we want a complete one. A half baked story with little fact and a lot of quotes from boggarts will take close to twenty minutes to write. The other variety, well, that takes a while.
Distance and proximity. Two words that rule a relationship. Any relationship. What is the distance you need to show and respect? What is the proximity you can enjoy and expect? When can you stick to these two rules? When must you cross the line? Paul Reiser described a relationship as a dance, in his book coupling. I know what he means. You gotta know the moves if you want to be any good at the dance. No one is a natural. Everyone can learn this dance if he wants to. There, that's the key word, want. Unless you want to be great in a relationship, you cant. The thought of spending a day wih someone should make you tingle. It should make you play catch with the hundred ways to make that person a trifle happier, these little ideas, flitting about in a great big hall of your mind. And what a thrill when you finally catch one. You suddenly remember her favourite flower and oh, there it is, in that hedge. You conjure two of the sweetest verses you can and jot 'em down on a neat little card, saving it all day to give it to her in the evening. It can be anyone, you know. It can be a stranger you met and liked. You can think up a witty joke you want to share with the guy. Or you could buy your mom that packet of oil she'd been asking for since three days. The reaction is fleeting most of the times, but unless you think its worth it, the better stuff is beyond your reach.
If I went on like this, I could probably make this a book, you know. I mean, the three ramble books I've read so far, by Tim Allen, Bing Cosby and Paul Reiser are all the same – a bunch of stand up comedy routines, with a prelude and a short conclusion attached to make it a pretty little chapter. But, I say, but, they have something else in the book. Their wives, the love of their life. You gotta have some huge factor in your life that turns it upside down as you're living it. You can use parents in your book, because that would be a foul. That would give you too much to write about. A girlfriend is too transient a concept to grasp long enough to write a book. So I guess if I had to write a great book full of jokes, having a wife would help tremendously. Plus, you have an excellent subject and inexhaustible material for jokes. Hmm, clever old rascals, the three of them. Their books probably got their wives starry eyed for weeks, the silly things. Well, I cant marry just as yet, so I guess I'll try and collect as much material as possible and brace myself with good writing skills before the avalanche of nuptial comedy buries me, kicking and rolling in laughter.
Mridula asked me a…..an important question. She asked me if I was a reporter for the journalism or for the writing. I guess I'm here for the writing. I like words. I enjoy looking at them, seeing them, reading them. I enjoy watching the picture they draw, just for me. The best part of writing is that sometimes, you don't see the picture yourself, until you se the words you've written. Definitely writing.
That's not all though. You tend to run out of things to write about after a while, really, you do. There are always things going on around you, but it starts to slip through your fingers after a while. The only way you can stop this from happening is to keep your grip on the pulse of life. The only way to do that, is to be in the thick of things, living life, not some of it, all of it. That's what being a journalist is all about. The average joe can choose the angle he wants to experience and accept. The journo has no choice. He has to look at every angle, he has to cover every angle, he has to experience every part of the story. Yeah, I know, pretty dramatic. But it's kinda true, you know. There's a certain pride in it. There's a rightful swagger in a person who can say, "I know more about it than you do." The humility in such a person is true. So that's what I'm after, in this office, out on the street, among peers and betters.
-Ananda
Distance and proximity. Two words that rule a relationship. Any relationship. What is the distance you need to show and respect? What is the proximity you can enjoy and expect? When can you stick to these two rules? When must you cross the line? Paul Reiser described a relationship as a dance, in his book coupling. I know what he means. You gotta know the moves if you want to be any good at the dance. No one is a natural. Everyone can learn this dance if he wants to. There, that's the key word, want. Unless you want to be great in a relationship, you cant. The thought of spending a day wih someone should make you tingle. It should make you play catch with the hundred ways to make that person a trifle happier, these little ideas, flitting about in a great big hall of your mind. And what a thrill when you finally catch one. You suddenly remember her favourite flower and oh, there it is, in that hedge. You conjure two of the sweetest verses you can and jot 'em down on a neat little card, saving it all day to give it to her in the evening. It can be anyone, you know. It can be a stranger you met and liked. You can think up a witty joke you want to share with the guy. Or you could buy your mom that packet of oil she'd been asking for since three days. The reaction is fleeting most of the times, but unless you think its worth it, the better stuff is beyond your reach.
If I went on like this, I could probably make this a book, you know. I mean, the three ramble books I've read so far, by Tim Allen, Bing Cosby and Paul Reiser are all the same – a bunch of stand up comedy routines, with a prelude and a short conclusion attached to make it a pretty little chapter. But, I say, but, they have something else in the book. Their wives, the love of their life. You gotta have some huge factor in your life that turns it upside down as you're living it. You can use parents in your book, because that would be a foul. That would give you too much to write about. A girlfriend is too transient a concept to grasp long enough to write a book. So I guess if I had to write a great book full of jokes, having a wife would help tremendously. Plus, you have an excellent subject and inexhaustible material for jokes. Hmm, clever old rascals, the three of them. Their books probably got their wives starry eyed for weeks, the silly things. Well, I cant marry just as yet, so I guess I'll try and collect as much material as possible and brace myself with good writing skills before the avalanche of nuptial comedy buries me, kicking and rolling in laughter.
Mridula asked me a…..an important question. She asked me if I was a reporter for the journalism or for the writing. I guess I'm here for the writing. I like words. I enjoy looking at them, seeing them, reading them. I enjoy watching the picture they draw, just for me. The best part of writing is that sometimes, you don't see the picture yourself, until you se the words you've written. Definitely writing.
That's not all though. You tend to run out of things to write about after a while, really, you do. There are always things going on around you, but it starts to slip through your fingers after a while. The only way you can stop this from happening is to keep your grip on the pulse of life. The only way to do that, is to be in the thick of things, living life, not some of it, all of it. That's what being a journalist is all about. The average joe can choose the angle he wants to experience and accept. The journo has no choice. He has to look at every angle, he has to cover every angle, he has to experience every part of the story. Yeah, I know, pretty dramatic. But it's kinda true, you know. There's a certain pride in it. There's a rightful swagger in a person who can say, "I know more about it than you do." The humility in such a person is true. So that's what I'm after, in this office, out on the street, among peers and betters.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 4
Saturday
There. Now you know what day of the week I'm talking about. It's a really novel method, typing in the date, time and the title of what one is about to write. Wonder why I rarely use this method of writing. Oh, hats right, I never know what I'm writing about, I usually don't know what day of the week it is and c'mon, who cares what time it is?
Today was an interesting day. The end of the day still saw me put zilch into the report basket, but I saw quite a bit. I went to the Osmania hospital, that zenith of Hyderabadi medical achievement. My second look into the hospital did nothing at all to help me get usd to my first look. The same half dried pan-spit on all the walls without exception, that same smell, a combination of human excrement, old linen, mild spirit and traces of blood. As I was walking along, I chanced on a story. Keeps your shirt on, I gave up the info to a fellow reporter. After I had filed half the story. Ah, forget it. Well, its about a farmer who claims he owns land on which the new international airport road in Shamshad Nagar is being built. He drank quite a bit of a chemical that is supposed to make roses look brighter. He was conscious when I came in, but quickly lost it when they started pumping fluids form out of his body. The story here, for me, is that none of the family members were surprised that he actually did it. And, none of them believed he might actually die. So it was like this media stunt they pulled, with tens of policemen standing around them.
Well, after that, I took a more detailed tour of the place. I saw the Acute Surgical Ward, the Emergency Operation Theatres and a few other rooms. All the rooms are the same. Neither the security nor sanitation changes by even a iota from room to room. The most telling part was when I saw footprints and drag prints of blood that had not been wiped in the more than two hours that in was in the hospital. The stains were right outside the heath inspector's room. The room adjoining the emergency operation theatres section is where the patient is first looked at. The rubber sheets on the bed have so much crusted blood and antiseptic ointment that it was dyed another colour by it. I had had enough of that floor.
Then I had an interesting chat with the Resident Medical Officer. He just finished his lunch and was so busy picking his teeth that he gave me his left hand to shake. "We are insignificant saar," he said between yawns. He also magnanimously agreed that the hospital was dirty. Of course, he had his theories to explain the situation – "The hospital is too close to the old city. You know, so many muslims keep coming. We have a floating population of a thousand people everyday. All the muslims have this pan habit. So if we clean it today, within one day it is same. Too difficult to maintain." And so the hospital is spit on, from the inside and out.
The next foray was to the mortuary. Now that is quite an experience. The smell is not what I would call foul. Oppressive or extremely pungent is a better way of describing it. By rule, one can go to the mortuary only with the permission of the HoD, but no one objected when I slipped in to take a look. There is so much fluid on the floor, man. That was the autopsy room. It had three bodies on three metal beds. A huge bundle of soiled cotton and gauze lay in one corner of the room. One body had just been done with and was being wheeled out, to make place for the latest body, one of a drunk with no legs. My eyes turned to the cold storage. There's a gulch that runs along the base of the metal storage cupboards. There was blood and water in this gulch. I cant for the life of me understand why a body that's being cold storaged would leak.
Ah well, after that little adventure, I came back and began working on my descriptive story of Osmania. Couldn't get very far, so I'm back to rambling. Well, I'm back. Boss thought since tomorrow is a holiday, I could sit back and write up that piece for his perusal. I did, and he said we could work on it on Monday. He asked me to be more observant and try to gather more details henceforth. Be a reporter, I believe he meant to say. What doesn't bend at 10 wont bend at 25. the amount of resistance my body is putting up against work and learning a new skill is unbelievable.
I bet I wont be able to learn to ride the bycicle or swim or any of the little skills I picked up as a kid. While it's kind of freaky on one side, it also helps you understand the older generation better. If I were born in the 60s and saw the computer for the first time in my fortieth year, I wouldn't be comfortable using such a complicated gadget.
Merry Christmas. It's the 25th, Jesus was born, Sudhir was born on this day. Had a comfortabletime at Bhargavi's place yesterday. After a good movie, we all went home and had dinner and slept. I showed Zahed some of this stuff. After the friendly lines like 'you should write a book', he came up with this - "I have this unshakable belief that You and Vikram will do extremely well in life". Wow. You knwo Zahed, you can hear, and see what he says. I slept well. I wished Sudhir, had a heavy breakfast in Bhargavi's place, took Zahed's bike and came back to the room. Sudhir sounded happy to hear from me. He was quite excited about the fact that he'd been getting birthday wishes and no sleep all nigh.
Ironically, I have no outside assignments today, when I have a bike I can use. I reworked the traffic story and hope it will be used. I did some work on the cell phone story. Made a gram of progress on the Osmania hospital story. And now we wait for something to happen.
This bit of rambling has been more descriptive of what I've seen, than the usual fare of wat I feel. Strange, I cant recall or recount how I felt when I saw those things ont eh Hospital or on the way I spent Sunday. Wonder why. The regular undercurrent of wanting to do well at work and a bit of anxety about the next day was still there, but little else registered.
-Ananda
There. Now you know what day of the week I'm talking about. It's a really novel method, typing in the date, time and the title of what one is about to write. Wonder why I rarely use this method of writing. Oh, hats right, I never know what I'm writing about, I usually don't know what day of the week it is and c'mon, who cares what time it is?
Today was an interesting day. The end of the day still saw me put zilch into the report basket, but I saw quite a bit. I went to the Osmania hospital, that zenith of Hyderabadi medical achievement. My second look into the hospital did nothing at all to help me get usd to my first look. The same half dried pan-spit on all the walls without exception, that same smell, a combination of human excrement, old linen, mild spirit and traces of blood. As I was walking along, I chanced on a story. Keeps your shirt on, I gave up the info to a fellow reporter. After I had filed half the story. Ah, forget it. Well, its about a farmer who claims he owns land on which the new international airport road in Shamshad Nagar is being built. He drank quite a bit of a chemical that is supposed to make roses look brighter. He was conscious when I came in, but quickly lost it when they started pumping fluids form out of his body. The story here, for me, is that none of the family members were surprised that he actually did it. And, none of them believed he might actually die. So it was like this media stunt they pulled, with tens of policemen standing around them.
Well, after that, I took a more detailed tour of the place. I saw the Acute Surgical Ward, the Emergency Operation Theatres and a few other rooms. All the rooms are the same. Neither the security nor sanitation changes by even a iota from room to room. The most telling part was when I saw footprints and drag prints of blood that had not been wiped in the more than two hours that in was in the hospital. The stains were right outside the heath inspector's room. The room adjoining the emergency operation theatres section is where the patient is first looked at. The rubber sheets on the bed have so much crusted blood and antiseptic ointment that it was dyed another colour by it. I had had enough of that floor.
Then I had an interesting chat with the Resident Medical Officer. He just finished his lunch and was so busy picking his teeth that he gave me his left hand to shake. "We are insignificant saar," he said between yawns. He also magnanimously agreed that the hospital was dirty. Of course, he had his theories to explain the situation – "The hospital is too close to the old city. You know, so many muslims keep coming. We have a floating population of a thousand people everyday. All the muslims have this pan habit. So if we clean it today, within one day it is same. Too difficult to maintain." And so the hospital is spit on, from the inside and out.
The next foray was to the mortuary. Now that is quite an experience. The smell is not what I would call foul. Oppressive or extremely pungent is a better way of describing it. By rule, one can go to the mortuary only with the permission of the HoD, but no one objected when I slipped in to take a look. There is so much fluid on the floor, man. That was the autopsy room. It had three bodies on three metal beds. A huge bundle of soiled cotton and gauze lay in one corner of the room. One body had just been done with and was being wheeled out, to make place for the latest body, one of a drunk with no legs. My eyes turned to the cold storage. There's a gulch that runs along the base of the metal storage cupboards. There was blood and water in this gulch. I cant for the life of me understand why a body that's being cold storaged would leak.
Ah well, after that little adventure, I came back and began working on my descriptive story of Osmania. Couldn't get very far, so I'm back to rambling. Well, I'm back. Boss thought since tomorrow is a holiday, I could sit back and write up that piece for his perusal. I did, and he said we could work on it on Monday. He asked me to be more observant and try to gather more details henceforth. Be a reporter, I believe he meant to say. What doesn't bend at 10 wont bend at 25. the amount of resistance my body is putting up against work and learning a new skill is unbelievable.
I bet I wont be able to learn to ride the bycicle or swim or any of the little skills I picked up as a kid. While it's kind of freaky on one side, it also helps you understand the older generation better. If I were born in the 60s and saw the computer for the first time in my fortieth year, I wouldn't be comfortable using such a complicated gadget.
Merry Christmas. It's the 25th, Jesus was born, Sudhir was born on this day. Had a comfortabletime at Bhargavi's place yesterday. After a good movie, we all went home and had dinner and slept. I showed Zahed some of this stuff. After the friendly lines like 'you should write a book', he came up with this - "I have this unshakable belief that You and Vikram will do extremely well in life". Wow. You knwo Zahed, you can hear, and see what he says. I slept well. I wished Sudhir, had a heavy breakfast in Bhargavi's place, took Zahed's bike and came back to the room. Sudhir sounded happy to hear from me. He was quite excited about the fact that he'd been getting birthday wishes and no sleep all nigh.
Ironically, I have no outside assignments today, when I have a bike I can use. I reworked the traffic story and hope it will be used. I did some work on the cell phone story. Made a gram of progress on the Osmania hospital story. And now we wait for something to happen.
This bit of rambling has been more descriptive of what I've seen, than the usual fare of wat I feel. Strange, I cant recall or recount how I felt when I saw those things ont eh Hospital or on the way I spent Sunday. Wonder why. The regular undercurrent of wanting to do well at work and a bit of anxety about the next day was still there, but little else registered.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 3
Yesterday
Ok, just finished reporting to my boss the deeds, or lack thereof, of the day. He was busy, fortunately, so gave me polite advice not to trust journalists, as they're all jackals, considering the competitive scenario. He then bid me khuda hafiz and turned to his hp flatscreen monitor. And I'm back to my desk.
My desk is in a cublicle and shares space with three other desks. The cubicle is a custom made product of Iceland, in collaboration with sadistic corporate giants in India. I'm sure there's a camera somewhere recording the symptoms of the slow onset of hypothermia. The disappearance of the previous resident of this desk is still a mystery, but I bet the cameras caught him in his death throes, his teeth still chattering six feet under.
I'm taking a look around now. Habiba is not here, probably her day off today. Srinivas and Mridula share the cubicle with me. The guy is a whip of a man, but his serious spectacled face has seen many a byline within the ten months he's been here. The girl is a charmer. No airs about her, loves cricket, is endearingly clumsy sometimes and is one heck of a reporter. Good sense of humour as well.
The first person I met in the editorial was prachi. She's a feature writer from massourie, who worked for the Hindustan times in delhi. Very amiable and quite cool. There's a touch of tough stuff in her, but she doesn't call on it often. Then there's puromita, another sub. She's quite pretty, and I haven't spoken a word to her since I came here. Not even a wish. Sheesh.
Today
Another day at work. Yes, the day's at work, not me. The story I'm supposed to be sniffing around about is regarding bad connectivity of cell phones, like when they cut the call in the middle f a conversation, or when the signal suddenly goes away on a holiday, or when you have to yell so hard your voice sounds half way to the next city and the anyone on the other line still thinks you're whispering. All this in spite of paying through the nose every month. Hardly value for money. Now see, it was so easy to tell you the problem in words like this. Btu no. I gotta make a report of it, make it just boring enough to be interesting. As a report. Any more boring and it loses its readability. That's the challenge of news, to keep your opinions to yourself and if they do happen to surface, they should be only a flavor in the story.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy. He was a good little boy, ad everyone in his little world loved him. They told him that he was the best, that he had his little flaws, but that he was still the best. They laughed at all his jokes, they let him alone when he was cranky. They praised hi every time he showed them a trick. The little boy loved everyone there, but he knew something wasn't quite right. He knew he wasn't the best. He knew he was far from it, and that he was getting farther by the day. But by now, he was quite full of the donuts everyone gave him, and just didn't want to try any harder at his jokes or his tricks. Then one day, everyone told the little boy he wasn't so little any more, that because he was the best, he had to go and be the best.
The little boy who was not so little any more was worried. He knew that the time had come when everyone would know he wasn't the best. He was sure everyone else would laugh and everyone would be sorry.
Ok, too much whining. I just took a walk to the hindu office a coupla km away. Met a very good journalist by name Sai Gopal. He's been in the field for a short while, but he's done a lot. My immediate boss (henceforth to be referred to simply as boss. Alpha boss will be alpha.) has great regard and a lot of praise for him, as does sudhir. Sai G is a great guy. He briefly told me that it was going to be hard, but that how high I go need be no less than how high I want to go. Clichés all, but when I saw the guy say these things, I saw many days of solid work and learning. 'continuous learning experience', termed it. He warned me to stay off office intrigue. I didn't need that one, but well, its helps to keep it in mind. He suggested that I keep a keen eye on the vernacular papers. There might be a lot to draw from them as time goes by, not to mention a picture of the city they give the ready. He also told me never to give up on reading, that the words I read ages ago will come floating back into sentences I write today. "Keep in touch", he warned.
Today is a zilch day. No stories, no ideas even. Just a brief meeting with a couple of bureaucrats in an organization one approaches only for statistics at the state level. It's still a start, I told myself. As I've been telling myself for the past week, tomorrow is another day. Now, another bit of observation that might be helpful – I get sluggish when I sit down for over 10 minutes. Up to 10 minutes is fine. Any more and I get sluggish and I simply can't move out, or do anything. Solution, start moving even before I get into the office. Make an appointment earlier in the day and get to that place first. Finish with the place and then come to the office. Hmm, not a bad idea. All I have to do is tell the boss. Ok. I need to dress like a journo from now on. Enough formals. I'm going to buy jeans and a good woodland shoe and get the look. Its part of getting into the groove.
The cell phone story I was working on needed some stats from the airtel guys. Naturally, their pr system and company policy was thicker than whale blubber, so I was groping with my hands in goop, with no solid info. However, the pr voice of airtel, as you may remember, is rediffusion. I spoke to a guy from that office. He was quite friendly, but this being a zilch day, he didn't give me much. But the guy seemed one of those bona fide pr guys, and offered to buy me ice cream some day, before his wife came back home. Ahem, I assure you, there's no pun in ice cream. He said he was under her mercy when she was home, that's all. Cute. The guy talks good urdu and went high funda for a while. I held my own with passable hindi, and voila, we both have a contact each in hyderabad. I wonder if he knows the contact is mutually useless.
After this phone call, I hit it off with srinivas, the 10month old journo in our cubicle. We sit back to back. He turned around, and explained the 'daily rigour' as he termed it. How every journo has to submit two ideas a day in the morning, work on them during the day and file them in the evening. Yup, two stories a day. Even dc doesn't do those many a week. Of course, its not a rule, just a challenge in a dog eat dog world. Some days it doesn't happen, no biggie. If it happens only on some days, it's a biggie. Another thing, copy's not personal stuff, so its quite common to have peeps read over your shoulder, like srinivas just did. What the heck, nothing incriminating.
TOI prefers two kinds of news – trends and negatives. Write about the newest trends in any field, and they will salivate over the copy. Give a negative angle to any story and you've hit a six. Write about the latest negative trend that's afflicting the city, and you've struck the mother lode of your career. Well, it's 7pm now, and that's what I've seen and learned so far in the day.
All this writing makes me wonder about what it is that makes someone write diaries or memoirs. What urges them to put everyday bits and pieces in writing. Well, there could be the megalomaniacs, who cant see their own deeds, however trivial, go unrecorded. Then there could be the observers, who cant let the magic of their world fade away. That's how many great parts of history came to be written. They write about themselves as well, only to make their lives a humble canvas on which the ceaseless dance of time is laved with gentle strokes of indelible words. Then there are the meek, who use a flow of words as a child uses the folds of a comforting blanket. The blanket is hugged when the child is sad, it can stand a kick or two when he's upset. Without exception, it is let go of when the child grows up. I don't feel like a megalomaniac right now, and I'm definitely not making any history by being the most non productive guy in the office, so I guess I'm rambling in the dark to keep the monsters under the bed from getting me.
-Ananda
Ok, just finished reporting to my boss the deeds, or lack thereof, of the day. He was busy, fortunately, so gave me polite advice not to trust journalists, as they're all jackals, considering the competitive scenario. He then bid me khuda hafiz and turned to his hp flatscreen monitor. And I'm back to my desk.
My desk is in a cublicle and shares space with three other desks. The cubicle is a custom made product of Iceland, in collaboration with sadistic corporate giants in India. I'm sure there's a camera somewhere recording the symptoms of the slow onset of hypothermia. The disappearance of the previous resident of this desk is still a mystery, but I bet the cameras caught him in his death throes, his teeth still chattering six feet under.
I'm taking a look around now. Habiba is not here, probably her day off today. Srinivas and Mridula share the cubicle with me. The guy is a whip of a man, but his serious spectacled face has seen many a byline within the ten months he's been here. The girl is a charmer. No airs about her, loves cricket, is endearingly clumsy sometimes and is one heck of a reporter. Good sense of humour as well.
The first person I met in the editorial was prachi. She's a feature writer from massourie, who worked for the Hindustan times in delhi. Very amiable and quite cool. There's a touch of tough stuff in her, but she doesn't call on it often. Then there's puromita, another sub. She's quite pretty, and I haven't spoken a word to her since I came here. Not even a wish. Sheesh.
Today
Another day at work. Yes, the day's at work, not me. The story I'm supposed to be sniffing around about is regarding bad connectivity of cell phones, like when they cut the call in the middle f a conversation, or when the signal suddenly goes away on a holiday, or when you have to yell so hard your voice sounds half way to the next city and the anyone on the other line still thinks you're whispering. All this in spite of paying through the nose every month. Hardly value for money. Now see, it was so easy to tell you the problem in words like this. Btu no. I gotta make a report of it, make it just boring enough to be interesting. As a report. Any more boring and it loses its readability. That's the challenge of news, to keep your opinions to yourself and if they do happen to surface, they should be only a flavor in the story.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy. He was a good little boy, ad everyone in his little world loved him. They told him that he was the best, that he had his little flaws, but that he was still the best. They laughed at all his jokes, they let him alone when he was cranky. They praised hi every time he showed them a trick. The little boy loved everyone there, but he knew something wasn't quite right. He knew he wasn't the best. He knew he was far from it, and that he was getting farther by the day. But by now, he was quite full of the donuts everyone gave him, and just didn't want to try any harder at his jokes or his tricks. Then one day, everyone told the little boy he wasn't so little any more, that because he was the best, he had to go and be the best.
The little boy who was not so little any more was worried. He knew that the time had come when everyone would know he wasn't the best. He was sure everyone else would laugh and everyone would be sorry.
Ok, too much whining. I just took a walk to the hindu office a coupla km away. Met a very good journalist by name Sai Gopal. He's been in the field for a short while, but he's done a lot. My immediate boss (henceforth to be referred to simply as boss. Alpha boss will be alpha.) has great regard and a lot of praise for him, as does sudhir. Sai G is a great guy. He briefly told me that it was going to be hard, but that how high I go need be no less than how high I want to go. Clichés all, but when I saw the guy say these things, I saw many days of solid work and learning. 'continuous learning experience', termed it. He warned me to stay off office intrigue. I didn't need that one, but well, its helps to keep it in mind. He suggested that I keep a keen eye on the vernacular papers. There might be a lot to draw from them as time goes by, not to mention a picture of the city they give the ready. He also told me never to give up on reading, that the words I read ages ago will come floating back into sentences I write today. "Keep in touch", he warned.
Today is a zilch day. No stories, no ideas even. Just a brief meeting with a couple of bureaucrats in an organization one approaches only for statistics at the state level. It's still a start, I told myself. As I've been telling myself for the past week, tomorrow is another day. Now, another bit of observation that might be helpful – I get sluggish when I sit down for over 10 minutes. Up to 10 minutes is fine. Any more and I get sluggish and I simply can't move out, or do anything. Solution, start moving even before I get into the office. Make an appointment earlier in the day and get to that place first. Finish with the place and then come to the office. Hmm, not a bad idea. All I have to do is tell the boss. Ok. I need to dress like a journo from now on. Enough formals. I'm going to buy jeans and a good woodland shoe and get the look. Its part of getting into the groove.
The cell phone story I was working on needed some stats from the airtel guys. Naturally, their pr system and company policy was thicker than whale blubber, so I was groping with my hands in goop, with no solid info. However, the pr voice of airtel, as you may remember, is rediffusion. I spoke to a guy from that office. He was quite friendly, but this being a zilch day, he didn't give me much. But the guy seemed one of those bona fide pr guys, and offered to buy me ice cream some day, before his wife came back home. Ahem, I assure you, there's no pun in ice cream. He said he was under her mercy when she was home, that's all. Cute. The guy talks good urdu and went high funda for a while. I held my own with passable hindi, and voila, we both have a contact each in hyderabad. I wonder if he knows the contact is mutually useless.
After this phone call, I hit it off with srinivas, the 10month old journo in our cubicle. We sit back to back. He turned around, and explained the 'daily rigour' as he termed it. How every journo has to submit two ideas a day in the morning, work on them during the day and file them in the evening. Yup, two stories a day. Even dc doesn't do those many a week. Of course, its not a rule, just a challenge in a dog eat dog world. Some days it doesn't happen, no biggie. If it happens only on some days, it's a biggie. Another thing, copy's not personal stuff, so its quite common to have peeps read over your shoulder, like srinivas just did. What the heck, nothing incriminating.
TOI prefers two kinds of news – trends and negatives. Write about the newest trends in any field, and they will salivate over the copy. Give a negative angle to any story and you've hit a six. Write about the latest negative trend that's afflicting the city, and you've struck the mother lode of your career. Well, it's 7pm now, and that's what I've seen and learned so far in the day.
All this writing makes me wonder about what it is that makes someone write diaries or memoirs. What urges them to put everyday bits and pieces in writing. Well, there could be the megalomaniacs, who cant see their own deeds, however trivial, go unrecorded. Then there could be the observers, who cant let the magic of their world fade away. That's how many great parts of history came to be written. They write about themselves as well, only to make their lives a humble canvas on which the ceaseless dance of time is laved with gentle strokes of indelible words. Then there are the meek, who use a flow of words as a child uses the folds of a comforting blanket. The blanket is hugged when the child is sad, it can stand a kick or two when he's upset. Without exception, it is let go of when the child grows up. I don't feel like a megalomaniac right now, and I'm definitely not making any history by being the most non productive guy in the office, so I guess I'm rambling in the dark to keep the monsters under the bed from getting me.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 2
This is now later in the day. There has yet been no improvement in the situation. Anyway, lets try and detail some observations of the available positives and negatives in sight. First section – how am I as a writer? My strengths are good, expressive language, almost nil spellos and grammatical errors in copy. Weaknesses, total lack of technical jargon in any sphere of activity. Inability to write a simple report, in the inverted pyramid style that is the basis of journalism. How about a feature then? A lack of necessary details that go into making a feature. So on the whole, I write witty emails really well. Hmm, call me pessimistic again, but I just don't think that's a really great job profile to carry around. Unless I can find a way to convince people to let me write their private mails, I wont have a steady job. In the same vein, how bout a comparative study of my peers. Quite an ego, eh? Haven't published a single report yet, and event the one that's probably going to be published is almost entirely written by Mir Ayoob sir. Chalo even then. Every reporter around, my immediate boss included has flaws in his language. The sub editors are busy in this office. Like habiba, a gentle sub editor pointed out, "none of them, ok, maybe some, but most of them, don't follow the basics of inverted pyramid style reporting. We have to do it for them, including all the spelling checks, etc. you write and leave it, I'll take care." Nice person.
But what to do with language when you're a reporter? You cant even wipe your arse with it. That reminds me. Yesterday, I was in the urinal, and guess who comes in to take a leak (big leak, considering his size), the most exalted one himself. We had a quiet time, comfortable in each other's company, a steady tinkle in the background. Then I opened the tap to wash my hands, hygiene at all times. There was no water. So after he pissed off, he was really pissed off about it. He asked me to call the housekeeping hotline, took a disgusted look at his hand and packed off. It felt good to smile that day. (Oh, I washed hands in the water in the bucket)
Wokay. So now what are my future plans? I will try and somehow meet sai gopal, my lord, in the morning tomorrow, get some good stuff and start visiting hospitals all around the city. In the mean time, I will also try and get money for my bike. If that clicks, things will be a lot quicker, I hope. I will also buy a map as soon as I can. But immediate work is to contact saigopal tomorrow and start on my beat. I wonder if getting a beat and starting to work on it will in any way give me good direction and a verve to work. I used to imagine that I was a freelance sort of guy, who could work in any area for a story of his choice. That bit of naivety is gone now. Contacts are your everything if you hope to publish a story. Without contacts, you are reduced to moving around endlessly, with nothing to show for it.
I have to start reading and you know, making myself a better man. Only when I work among well informed people do I realize how very behind the times I am. I still find it difficult to read the papers in the morning. The moment I open the page and begin, it feels like I'm reading a college text book. There is this in built urge to try and get all the information I read by heart. I try and curb that instinct, and nothing at all registers. I…whoops. My boss just asked me to write down my name. So it might be safe to expect a byline. Ananda, will be my nom de plume. I wonder if I should add Venkateswaran the next item onwards.
Ananda.
But what to do with language when you're a reporter? You cant even wipe your arse with it. That reminds me. Yesterday, I was in the urinal, and guess who comes in to take a leak (big leak, considering his size), the most exalted one himself. We had a quiet time, comfortable in each other's company, a steady tinkle in the background. Then I opened the tap to wash my hands, hygiene at all times. There was no water. So after he pissed off, he was really pissed off about it. He asked me to call the housekeeping hotline, took a disgusted look at his hand and packed off. It felt good to smile that day. (Oh, I washed hands in the water in the bucket)
Wokay. So now what are my future plans? I will try and somehow meet sai gopal, my lord, in the morning tomorrow, get some good stuff and start visiting hospitals all around the city. In the mean time, I will also try and get money for my bike. If that clicks, things will be a lot quicker, I hope. I will also buy a map as soon as I can. But immediate work is to contact saigopal tomorrow and start on my beat. I wonder if getting a beat and starting to work on it will in any way give me good direction and a verve to work. I used to imagine that I was a freelance sort of guy, who could work in any area for a story of his choice. That bit of naivety is gone now. Contacts are your everything if you hope to publish a story. Without contacts, you are reduced to moving around endlessly, with nothing to show for it.
I have to start reading and you know, making myself a better man. Only when I work among well informed people do I realize how very behind the times I am. I still find it difficult to read the papers in the morning. The moment I open the page and begin, it feels like I'm reading a college text book. There is this in built urge to try and get all the information I read by heart. I try and curb that instinct, and nothing at all registers. I…whoops. My boss just asked me to write down my name. So it might be safe to expect a byline. Ananda, will be my nom de plume. I wonder if I should add Venkateswaran the next item onwards.
Ananda.
Hyderabad 1
Wow. I have no idea what to do, I'm sleepy, I feel sluggish and unmotivated. Not totally, mostly. What a feeling, not to feel anything good or bad completely, but just enough to make your life difficult.
I've been given the health beat by the bigwigs. "The universe conspires to give you what you want", I believe is the saying. I can see the pattern, but I'm not sure how to tap into this conspiracy. The job I have is very difficult for a fresher to get. I wasn't exceptionally good in the interview, so I have Sulekha to thank for the job. I also got the best possible boss to work under, Mir Ayoob Ali Khan. Everyone who knows him unanimously agrees that he's a gentleman. Fine. And now, I've been given the best possible beat a fresher can hope to get. I also have two really good contacts – one a former veteran of the beat, and another a very senior doctor in a huge hospital. One is like a walking, talking guidebook to how its done, and the other is a potential sacred cow. As I see it, NIIMS has the least amount of problems as far as infrastructure and stuff are concerned. So I can keep the neurologist in good humour for quite a while, while he gives me the dope on other institutions. I could do the same with most other hospitals, use one to get stuff on the other. Wah, that is the ultimate in strategy, and the nadir of stereotyped thinking. I am so darned conservative, always thinking in the box, in clichés, circles, two dimensional, looking at a single angle. I have no idea how to get out of this. That said, I smell something quite big in Sai Gopal. Other than the relieving fact that he seemed happy to speak to me, there's also the fact that he said "I'll give you all the contacts and numbers". That's manna, man. Man oh man! The other contact, the neurologist, is Vasudevan's brother in law. Practically family. Vasu's cool with me, and he wants good stories for himself also, so the doc will be more than forthcoming. I don't think I'll have any major difficulty in keeping his name out of the papers for a while. If the information is technical, I can get the quote from another neurologist. Hey, I just remembered, I know two of the best radiologists in the world – joga rao uncle and his wife. I gotta get in touch, man. I will also work on the hatke stories on Sundays, and churn out stories like a mutated journalist monster with nimble hands and a razor sharp, keen, incisive mind. Whoa, said noah. Stories do not drop on one's lap. They have to be planted, nurtured and left to mature on their own time, under the constant and watchful eye of the journalist.
The thing is, I don't ever remember having written these many words this quickly. A bigger surprise s the rush of contentment that I feel, like a chain smoker finally getting a fag after three days and nights. Imagine that first drag, deep into the lungs, that you let go only reluctantly. This is my first drag in a long, long while.
Its been almost a week since I got here. What have I done? A good bit of moving around, work to the casual observer. I know better. Its not work that I did this week, its dumb work. What an intelligent journalist can do with double the number of phone calls and less than half the number of one on one meetings, I have taken six whole days to do. I have filed exactly two stories, after having typed them thrice each, neither of which have been chosen for print. Call me pessimistic, but I just cant look at that as a great first week.
Man, I might as well wear a bull head mask and start chewing my cud for all the useless, boring, tiring, food-less running around that I did. Time for a quick resolution, triggered by sudden emotion, without any support of a plan – 'Enough dumb work. I will be professional henceforth'. That felt good. I still have no idea what I have to do.
Meeting GG was unarguably the best part of these few days. As usual, I imagined a power-packed conversation where I offer my eternal allegiance and he hands me the reins of the cultural u turn of India. I also had a few choice things to ask of him, like 'please let me keep this job' or 'please, please, let me publish just one story before I get the sack'. I went, I saw, he conquered. He inquired about my health, where I was staying, how I was doing and (insightful man) gave me two bananas. I hadn't had any breakfast. I didn't feel like asking him anything at all. Took theertham, left the place, spoke to appa and amma, and I was ready for another moo day.
I've been given the health beat by the bigwigs. "The universe conspires to give you what you want", I believe is the saying. I can see the pattern, but I'm not sure how to tap into this conspiracy. The job I have is very difficult for a fresher to get. I wasn't exceptionally good in the interview, so I have Sulekha to thank for the job. I also got the best possible boss to work under, Mir Ayoob Ali Khan. Everyone who knows him unanimously agrees that he's a gentleman. Fine. And now, I've been given the best possible beat a fresher can hope to get. I also have two really good contacts – one a former veteran of the beat, and another a very senior doctor in a huge hospital. One is like a walking, talking guidebook to how its done, and the other is a potential sacred cow. As I see it, NIIMS has the least amount of problems as far as infrastructure and stuff are concerned. So I can keep the neurologist in good humour for quite a while, while he gives me the dope on other institutions. I could do the same with most other hospitals, use one to get stuff on the other. Wah, that is the ultimate in strategy, and the nadir of stereotyped thinking. I am so darned conservative, always thinking in the box, in clichés, circles, two dimensional, looking at a single angle. I have no idea how to get out of this. That said, I smell something quite big in Sai Gopal. Other than the relieving fact that he seemed happy to speak to me, there's also the fact that he said "I'll give you all the contacts and numbers". That's manna, man. Man oh man! The other contact, the neurologist, is Vasudevan's brother in law. Practically family. Vasu's cool with me, and he wants good stories for himself also, so the doc will be more than forthcoming. I don't think I'll have any major difficulty in keeping his name out of the papers for a while. If the information is technical, I can get the quote from another neurologist. Hey, I just remembered, I know two of the best radiologists in the world – joga rao uncle and his wife. I gotta get in touch, man. I will also work on the hatke stories on Sundays, and churn out stories like a mutated journalist monster with nimble hands and a razor sharp, keen, incisive mind. Whoa, said noah. Stories do not drop on one's lap. They have to be planted, nurtured and left to mature on their own time, under the constant and watchful eye of the journalist.
The thing is, I don't ever remember having written these many words this quickly. A bigger surprise s the rush of contentment that I feel, like a chain smoker finally getting a fag after three days and nights. Imagine that first drag, deep into the lungs, that you let go only reluctantly. This is my first drag in a long, long while.
Its been almost a week since I got here. What have I done? A good bit of moving around, work to the casual observer. I know better. Its not work that I did this week, its dumb work. What an intelligent journalist can do with double the number of phone calls and less than half the number of one on one meetings, I have taken six whole days to do. I have filed exactly two stories, after having typed them thrice each, neither of which have been chosen for print. Call me pessimistic, but I just cant look at that as a great first week.
Man, I might as well wear a bull head mask and start chewing my cud for all the useless, boring, tiring, food-less running around that I did. Time for a quick resolution, triggered by sudden emotion, without any support of a plan – 'Enough dumb work. I will be professional henceforth'. That felt good. I still have no idea what I have to do.
Meeting GG was unarguably the best part of these few days. As usual, I imagined a power-packed conversation where I offer my eternal allegiance and he hands me the reins of the cultural u turn of India. I also had a few choice things to ask of him, like 'please let me keep this job' or 'please, please, let me publish just one story before I get the sack'. I went, I saw, he conquered. He inquired about my health, where I was staying, how I was doing and (insightful man) gave me two bananas. I hadn't had any breakfast. I didn't feel like asking him anything at all. Took theertham, left the place, spoke to appa and amma, and I was ready for another moo day.
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