An earthworm

I had the privilege of spending time with noted satirist Harishankar Parsai in Jabalpur for years in early eighties. I am also fortunate enough to have read his oeuvre contained in his six volumes.
A few comments on my posts reminded me of one of Parsai’s great stories- Thanda Sharif Aadami—(“A cold gentleman”) .
Parsai’s inimitable style is impossible to translate in English. Yet, I am just trying to give a sketch of the story.
Two acquaintances are talking about a man who died on the day. One is describing to the other how gentleman the dead was. The virtues of the dead were many, the describer recalled. To begin with, he ( the dead man) was loathe to criticizing any body; would come straight from office to home ; shunned political talks; had no ideology; never got entangled in any ‘Lafda’ on road whether it was related an accident or a quarrel or any thing; mortally feared police; kept his eyes low; worshipped gods and goddesses demonstrably; obeyed the bosses and people of higher status without questioning.
In all, he was a gentleman who ought to have lived longer, the first man opines to the other with a tinge of sadness in his voice.
Parsai narrated the story in first person. In the story he was the man listening the virtues of the dead.
Now see beauty of the conclusion of the story. When the dead gentleman’s qualities were being described to him, the writer had an irresistible itch on his leg. He felt some slimy insect was creeping on the leg.
When the friend seeks reaction of the writer about the dead gentleman, the writer suddenly flings his leg. “ Kya Tha ? (What was that?), the man wonders.
“ Kenchua Tha”. (It was an earthworm).
No prize for guessing whom the writer described an earthworm.
I certainly don’t want to become a cold gentleman, an earthworm. Hence the blog. Hence the posts.

Pointing to overcast sky

Chahta to Bach Sakta Tha
Magar Kaise Bach Sakta Tha?
Jo Bachega
Kaise Rachega?
Isiliye
Main Dhundhuaya
Chitkane Laga
Karah Sakta Tha
Magar Kailse Karah Sakta Tha?
Jo Karahega
Kaise Nibahega?
(Shrikant Verma)
If I dare translate the above lines in English, the translation could be roughly like this –
I could escape if so wished
But how could I?
Who escapes, can’t create
So,
I smoldered
Crackled
Could moan
But how could I moan
Who moans can’t manage
This poetry is from ‘Magadh’. Melancholy dominates Srikant Verma’s ‘Magadh’, his last of four anthologies. He penned most of poems in ‘Magadh’ following disillusionment with politics. He was an AICC general secretary during Rajiv Gandhi’s time but was gradually marginalized. Or, perhaps withdrew himself. He died a thoroughly disillusioned man in 1988.
I am recalling this poetry to reply to some of the comments on my previous blogs.
Some well-meaning commentators have advised me against writing “ too personal things” or “settling personal scores”. They cited rules of blogging to caution me.
I thank them all from the core of my heart, not the least because they thought it fit to comment on my blogs.
But, dear friends, what is the good of blogging if you don’t express your innermost feelings? Admittedly, I am novice in blogging. But I am thrilled by its potential. It has given me the kind of freedom of expression I always yearn for. The blog has turned me what writer Arundhati Roy says, a “one-man mobile republic”.
Me and my senior friend for 25 years Rajesh Pandey often used to lament we don’t have an effective device to reach out to people.
Launching a paper or magazine by individuals like Rajesh or me in this age is simply out of question. Even the ‘high class’ papers are gasping for want of capital. The age of ‘small magazines” is passé.
To me, the blog has come as a divine intervention to raise your voice and be heard across the globe. I recently read the Thomas Friedman’s book “ The World is flat” and came to realise invaluable potential of the blog.
Since then, the idea of starting blogging agitated my mind. And now I am into it.
Dear friends, let me recall another poet Dushyant Kumar’s line
Mat Kaho Aakash Mein Kohra Ghana Hai
Yah Kisi Ki Vyaktigat Aalochana Hai
(Don’t say the sky is thickly overcast
This is someone’s personal criticism)
Should I desist from pointing to the overcast sky for the fear that this might ruffle some individuals’ feathers?
I would welcome criticism and assure you none of the comments on my posts would be deleted unless their language is completely obscene.
Let the thousands flowers bloom. This is the beauty of democracy. This is beauty of secular republic we have inherited.
Blogging is a cultural tool for personal protest and must be used to its optimum potential.
Let me finish this blog with one example.
About a couple of years ago, the RSS-sponsored mega play ‘ Janata Raja” was staged in Bhopal. The play is about Shivaji’s life. Its sets were spectacular, consumes dazzling but acting mediocre. Nonetheless I was delighted to see the play.
Why? Because it was a cultured way of propagating RSS ideology, a far cry from hooliganism the Bajrang Dal hoodlums often indulge in, in the name of saving ‘ Bhartiya Sanksriti”.
Many of my secular friends sneered at staging of the play. They pointed to the state patronage to the play by the Shivraj Singh Government.
Well, the objection to selective state patronage to the play might be justified but we must welcome such cultural and cultured enterprise to propagate any ideology. It is shorn of violence. If theatre becomes a true language of protest, nothing like that.

Join me in pray

We are keeping our fingers crossed as my colleague in Hindustan Times Manish Dixit is struggling for life in the National hospital in Bhopal. He is suffering from severe pneumonia. Both the lungs are massively congested. How this happened is a mystery. Doctors suspect it could be due to fungal /bacterial emission from repeatedly re-circulated air from the AC at Manish’s bedroom. What lends credence to the suspicion is the fact his wife and a son are also afflicted with the same problem but in lesser degree.
Just imagine the condition of the family at the moment! Manish’s 64-year-old father is fighting hard with himself to look sanguine. The mother is just quiet. Younger brother is pillar of strength.
Many of us in the reporting section have had little sleep since Manish was admitted. He is with us since launching of the paper nine years ago. In fact, I know him for the last 15 years when he used to come to National Mail.
Crisis, as the cliché goes, brings out best of the human beings. How true! Most of my colleagues are doing every thing possible to see that Manish gets best of treatment. We have spoken to doctors in Mumbai, Delhi, Nagpur and , of course, Bhopal.
For three days, our routine is confined to hospitals, office and home. We felt sad that we couldn’t give good coverage to the first phase of Lok Sabha poll. How could we?
It is not only we in HT who are doing our duty to Manish. Chief Secretary Rakesh Sahni came to the hospital and is keeping himself abreast about Manish’s health. Commissioner, Public Relations, Manoj Shrivastava, spent many hours while Manish was to be shifted to AIIMS by air ambulance. Manoj guided arrangements on his mobile. He looked genuinely concerned. It wasn’t as though he were doing a PR man’s job for a journalist. The AIIMS shifting plan was, however, dropped on the advise of the doyen of Bhopal’s medical fraternity Dr NP Mishra.
The aborted plan also got me in touch with Sanchita Sharma, our health editor in HT in Delhi. I haven’t met her but when I explained Manish’s condition on mobile she said, “ok, bring him here and I will take care of treatment at AIIMS. Nothing to worry.”
Sanchita’s assurance contrasted with Mazhar Ulla Khan’s dithering. I spoke to Sanchita for the first time but I know Mazhar for the last 18 years. We worked in National Mail (wound up English paper of the Bhaskar group) for seven years. He is now public relations officer with the Bhopal Memorial Hospital and Research Centre (BMHRC).
Desperate, as we all were due to Manish’s critical condition, I called up Mazhar to know if BMHRC could do something for the pneumonia patient. Frankly, I expected him to say, “ Arre Bade Bhaiya, just bring him here. Every thing will be taken care of”. I expected too much from him. Any way.

Please join in praying for Manish's speedy recovery.

Kabir, my guide

Most people are dumbfounded when asked what is their philosophy. Fortunately, I
am not. My philosophy is absolutely clear. I am eternally indebted to
great Sant Kabir whose one " Doha" most aptly encapsulates my
philosophy.
Sai Itna Deejiye Jaame Kutumb Samay
Mai Bhi Bhookha Naa Rahun Sadhu Naa
Bhookha Jaye
Its literal translation will be some thing like; O almighty, give me enough to
sustain my family, so that not only I have not to go hungry but also the
mendicant at my door is not turned away without enough alms.
This is just a loose translation. The true philosophical import of the Doha is too
profound. Of all the ancient philosopher-Sants, Kabir's is the most
arcane philosophy. And, most charming too. However, the bottom line is
--meaningful contentment, which, in other words is conquering lust.
Philosophy always confuses even the most learned people. They feel it is too esoteric
to learn, much less adopt in life. The confusion is mainly borne out of
linking philosophy to ancient scriptures, mainly religious. Philosophy has
essentially secular outlook, I feel.
I tend to look at philosophy in much simpler ways. Besides the Kabir's
immortal Doha, I am inclined to recite a famous Hindi song when quizzed
about my philosophy.
Mai Zindagi Ka Saath Nibhata Chala Gaya
Har Fiqr Ko Dhunve Mein Udata Chala Gaya
The entire song in its four stanzas is, in fact, a rich philosophical treatise.
Whenever ever green star Devanand comes on TV screen singing the song in his characteristic gay abandons, I am exhilarated.
Yet another thing that defines my philosophy is great French writer Moupassant's
famous story.
It is like this. A barefoot person walking on road is grumbling about want of a
pair of shoes as he sees another man walking ahead of him wearing brand
new footwear. The barefoot man meets a friend on the way and cribs about
lack of shoes. The friend asks the grumbler to turn around. He turns and
sees that the man behind him is without legs!
Whenever any undue desire overtakes me momentarily, I recall this story.
Of course, my family does not share my philosophy. The wife often cringes for my
inability to change this dilapidated F-type house in South TT Nagar that
is virtually abandoned by the PWD as irreparable: the 18-year-old son is
too starry-eyed to see virtues in my philosophy; the 14-year-old daughter is most embarrassed by my philosophy in the family.
In fact, no one in the family is happy with the way I look at my life. Out of
affection, they feel I deserve a " better" life. And better
means- more comfort, more luxury and greater social status.
My mother often weeps that her eldest son is without his own house whereas the other
two have nice ones -- one in Jabalpur and the other in Delhi. The
younger brothers lead an upper-middle-class life with all the luxuries
they have assembled. Their nice life style, of course, gladdens the mother
but, at the same time, accentuates her sorrow (pity?) for me.
I am really confounded. Don't know what to say to her. For, I don't
understand why should she be unhappy.
Let me recall one instance. In the last summer, I woke in the middle of the night
to muted sobs of my mother. She was sitting on the bed. I inquired the
reason for her weeping but she kept mum. On persistent inquiries, she told
me the reason and I was confused whether to laugh or cry.
The reason was funny for me and heart-rending for her.
It so happened that I decided to sleep on a mattress in the bedroom because she
occupied my bed. We had only one cooler and it was scorching summer. Every
one in the family had to adjust for cool air of the cooler.
The mother said amid sobs when she saw me asleep on the mattress, she became
miserable.
" How my son whose academic brilliance in school had ignited millions of dreams
in the family is coiled on a shoddy mattress and still looking content!"
It was hard to convince the mother of my philosophy in the night.
Instead, I assured her to buy a new cooler, which I did the next morning.

More about philosophy in next blogs.

Fabulous contacts

Fabulous Contacts

The crème la crème of Bhopal media was in the party last night. It was a Congress leader’s daughter’s wedding reception. Lesser mortals like me too were there. The party was magnificent, food sumptuous, varieties mind-boggling and the ambience suffused with opulence.
The Congress leader resides in a locality, which in local media circle is also called “ Dalal Street”. Of course, not all the residents on the street belong to the ilk. But, as very few in Dixitpura Mohalla in Jabalpur are Dixit, the Dalal street too has few who qualify the street. The street- qualifiers are, obviously, resourceful persons. They enjoy ‘fabulous contacts”, as a journalist reminded me in the party.
The word ‘fabulous contacts” flummoxes me. I have discovered that ‘fabulous contacts” is inversely proportional to true reporting. The richer a journalist in contacts, the less he tends to write. And whatever or whenever he/she writes is, deservedly, seen with suspicion.
I must confess I too write sparingly but can’t be accused of “ fabulous contacts’. Forget the chief minister, even a beat policeman of my locality doesn’t know me. It is, in fact, my preoccupation with the job in hand that keeps me away from regular reporting. Laziness is another, perhaps bigger, reason.
In media jargon, words ‘contacts’ and ‘sources’ frequently crop up. Both hugely differ from each other. Contacts connote knowing and be known to bigwigs including top politicians, bureaucrats, businessmen or similar influential people in the society. They seldom supply a tip for reporting unless it concerns furthering their own nest. Sources are different. They belong to lower categories and wish to remain mostly anonymous.
I recall my friend Late Jagat Pathak who had very few contacts but innumerable sources. His sources mostly comprised cobblers, washer-men, hammals, masons, police constable and such people. Jagat Bhai leveraged these sources to dig out stories. And his reporting was unsurpassable. He was hugely popular city reporter.
Whenever I pillion rode on his much-talked-out dilapidated schooter in late eighties and early nineties, I noticed with amazement that Jagat Bhai’s one hand is almost permanently waving to the greetings of passers-by. Naturally, I had high regard for him.
Another name that crosses my mind is of Bharat Desai. He worked in local and national papers and magazines but didn’t claim to know high and mighty. His marriage reception in 1993 was markedly shorn of “ fabulous contacts.” Only friends and close acquaintances attended the intimate and warm party. Therefore, I was not surprised to learn that Bharat Desai, now RE of Times of India, Ahmedabad, has hardly, if ever, met Chief Minister Narendra Modi.
I have also known and worked with journalists with “ fabulous contacts”. They are innately timid. The fear of “ what so-and-so might say” always haunts them when they wield the pen. The higher they ascend in the career ladder, the deeper the fear.
I always wonder why this fear haunts them as the stage of their life when they have achieved every thing in terms of money and fame. I believe the “ fabulous contacts” imprison these journalists in their own cocoon of thinking. Their ‘contacts’ overawe them.
At times their conscious pricks but gets overwhelmed by the overriding idea of high social status. This social status, they convince themselves, is a direct derivative of their “ fabulous contacts.” So, why lose them ?
As far fairness and social commitment in journalism, who cares for these ‘ avoidable’ attributes any more? This is how they allow their sense of fairness to degenerate.
The degeneration is unstoppable. Once a journalist has gone astray, mainly on the strength of “ fabulous contacts, he seeks to assert his position through means vastly different from journalistic. He uses the “ fabulous contacts” as a capital to endear himself to his paper owner.
The paper owner, in turn, puts the journalist on liaison for his myriad business interests. And thus a nexus of IAS-politician-newspaper-owner-journalist is formed. The nexus discreetly invades the paper’s editorial propriety and independence.
The newspaper baron wants more business, the politician favourable coverage and the IAS/IPS cover-up for their misdeeds and expose for their detractors’. And where is the journalist? He becomes a wiling tool, now that he has already sold his conscience.
So beware of “ fabulous contacts.” Rely on “ sources”.

Dream and nightmare

Dream turns nightmare
What was my enduring dream for years in youth time has turned into a recurring nightmare. Failure haunts me persistently. Often in the middle of night, I wake up, perspiring. What is that dream-turned-nightmare?
In school, my ambition was to become an army officer. What fuelled this ambition was praise for my body constitution (I grew faster than most peers, and was 5’, 11” feet tall and lanky in Class 11th).
By the time I entered college, I had got hooked to literature- Hindi and English. So, the army plan was forgotten.
Instead, I yearned to become a writer. At 20, I joined Jabalpur theatre group ‘Vivechana’ and the association ignited in me fire to become an actor. As passion for literature and theatre grew, I leaned to Marxism.
And a new dream beckoned; to become a teacher. I dreamt myself of going in poor ‘bustees’, teaching slum children.
I was lucky to pursue all these avocations for years in Jabalpur (except of a writer) but not lucky enough to carry them on after I left the City.
Destiny intervened. I strayed into journalism accidentally. Well almost. Father died. The dreams shattered. The city of birth left behind. A new city (Bhopal), new people and new responsibilities (marriage and children) combined to transform me.
But the dream survived in deep recess of my consciousness. And still haunts me, not as a dream but a nightmare.
Why I am talking of this? Because I feel the dream is still realizable. Why can’t I become a writer, a theatre man and a teacher, besides being, of course, a journalist?
There is one major hurdle- financial insecurity.
In India, few like Khushwant Singh, Dilip Padgaonkar or Sanjay Baroo in English (In Hindi we have a long list that prominently includes Agneya, Raghuvir Sahay, Shrikant Verma etc) are fortunate to straddle the academics, literature and journalism with aplomb. They are all financially well-off and intellectual giants.
I am miles behind them in purse and caliber. Maybe, if I were born in the West, I could have hopped from one vocation to another of choice with whatever little intellect I possess.
Nevertheless, I still try to repel the nightmare. How? Reading habit continues to be my most dependable companion.
Occasionally, I dabble in theatre too. My last appearance on stage was barely two months ago in Jabalpur as Dr Oster Mark in Steinberg’s play ‘ The Father. Becoming writer remains an unfinished but not unrealizable mission.
As far teacher, I have sincerely attempted to perform the role while working as bureau chief in HT.
Here I owe a debt to interns of Makhan Lal Chaturvedi University of Journalism. I have had opportunities to share my knowledge with at least a dozen interns from the institute.
Of course, they were not exactly brilliant. But, many of them with positive attitude to learning did well in the small durations of one to three months they were in the HT.
I would always wistfully yearn I had more time for them. But the routine of the bureau chief job keeps me occupied. The teacher in me would be delighted to see the pupils learning new things.
I did not teach them any great things. It was just how to write correct English in news format. I strongly believe, once a new comer understood the essentials of formatting a report, he/she has learnt more than half of journalism. The rest will follow naturally.
In this season of internship, however, I felt deprived of the delight the ‘teacher’ used to derive in the past. Some interns came.
Barring one, all were put under others. The one with me was likeable, if quite fidgety, girl. She is diligent, punctual, reverential and, most importantly, inquisitive. But, I couldn’t train her as much as I desired.
The others wouldn’t interact with me. Nearly two months passed.
One day, I learnt all of them are abandoning internship half way. I had been sensing some discomfort in them for some time but had no inkling that they would just quit the training.
They did not divulge the reason for their regrettable action when I spoke to them. They said all was fine here. But their voice betrayed their disappointment.
Later, the girl who was working with me told me that the interns feel discriminated against. Her remark was as shocking as it was acerbic. ‘ My crime is that I could not choose an influential father to sire me”. I was aghast.
The remark left me wondering why every journalist doesn’t have a well-intentioned teacher in him/her. It is not about one particular organisation.
In every media organisation, trainees are either contemptuously ignored or condescendingly saddled with inconsequential tasks having no or little bearing to their training.
The specious argument advanced by the “ mentors’ for such rubbish assignments is that “ we too learnt journalism this way’. Many such mentors get insidiously nostalgic about “ those days” when their editors or immediate bosses would ask them to do the kind of work they are now asking the trainees to perform.
All this nostalgia talk is nothing but disingenuous self-aggrandizement.
The young boys and girls with stars in their eyes don’t want that nostalgia. They want to learn. The sooner media organisations realise this the better it is for their own image. After all, the interns can be transformed into assets for a media group if groomed properly.
It is a symbiotic relationship. They have human resources, energy and readiness for assignment. The paper has experience and technology to mould the energy into a useful product.
I feel sad about those interns.

Nasir unemployability

Nasir’s unemployablity
Those of you who avidly read Sunday column ‘Time Machine” (earlier Then and Now) in the Hindustan Times, Bhopal Live must have been impressed by the column writer’s lucidity of expression and intimate knowledge of Bhopal. His name is-- need I tell? --- Nasir Kamaal.
Till six months ago, he was HT’s deputy news editor. He quit as he felt his health was not permitting him to endure work pressure. He suffers from slip disk. Nasir took up a 9 to 5 assignment with an NGO working for the gas victims. Work pressure has lessened on him but his worries have increased, primarily financial. He is sole bread earner of the family with a wife and two sons- one grown- up and the other growing.
Nasir expressed the desire to return to the newspaper. We in the HT were delighted that Nasir Bhai will be back soon. It was, however, not to be. We were told that Nasir (54) is too old to be reemployed. I was more anguished than shocked. Why must 54 be an age of unemployablity? I ask myself. This is preposterous. Let me explain why.
Till three and half years ago, Nasir and me used to work together on the HT’s desk. Both were chief sub editors. Our routine was to come around 5 pm in the office and stay till 1.30 am. We would edit nearly 90 percent of all the stories from Bhopal and other centres’ correspondents. I would rewrite stories too -- mostly political and administrative ones. The routine went on for more than three years. Nasir’s diligence, punctuality, neat copyediting and, above all, a little avuncular charm won over every one in the paper. At times, of course, he would lose tempter but the duration would be rather short and absolutely devoid of rancour or malice. I can safely claim Nasir used to perform work of at least four sub editors. By the time many others (10 to 15 years younger to Nasir) on the desk could edit two copies, Nasir would be through with a dozen. More than quantity, Nasir excelled in quality in editing. So, where was the age problem?
It is all about attitude to work. You can be young and chronic shirker; and quite old and still be hard worker. Nasir’s is one glorious example.
I feel so sad for Nasir but can’t express lest he should take it as pity. Life has not been kind to him. He has every quality of an illustrious journalist and yet he is nowhere in the media scene. He is an MA in Urdu literature from prestigious JNU.
On the other hand, we have a bunch of racketeers masquerading as “ Varishtha Patrakar” who are thoroughly enjoying all the benefits that the profession accrued them- by means less fair than foul.
I came to know Nasir in 1991 when he was with the Free Press, Bhopal bureau. His innate goodness was inescapable. Later I too joined him in the bureau. We could have stayed in the FP but for Kalpesh Yagnik. He was sent as bureau chief six months after I joined the paper. Kalpesh was (at least in those days) a rank hypocrite. His English was atrocious and his news sense pathetic. He showed qualms about drinking tea or having dinner in CM’s or ministers’ press conference but secretly lobbied for mining lease to his relatives in the corridors of power. Some other racketeering escapades of Kalpesh also surfaced later.
Both Nasir and me couldn’t suffer Kalpesh for long. I quit first. Nasir followed a few months later. We joined at different times the National Mail, which had been revived under Dr Suresh Mehrotra’s editor ship. Dr Mehrotra is hardly a journalist. He can’t write. He claim to fame was his ability to befriend bureaucrats and politicians. He was known as Arjun Singh’s man and Dr Mehrotra quite enjoyed this identity.
Having said this, I must admit the editor was good to us in initial four years. He virtually left the paper to our joint responsibility. The National Mail did remarkably well under Nasir and me. Gradually, however, Dr Mehrotra’s visionlessness and mediocrity overwhelmed him as well as the paper. The National Mail started sinking. We tried hard to retain professionalism and were sidelined as a result. Nasir again left the paper in disgust and decided to move to Bangalore. I sulked but stayed on, completely marginalized.
A few months later Nasir returned from Bangalore. The magazine he was to launch there was not taking off because of some problems. Doors of the National Mail were closed to him. He reluctantly joined the Central Chronicle as just a copy editor. A year or so later, I too finally decided enough was enough in the National Mail and joined the Central Chronicle. It was in 2000.
We were in Chronicle for just a couple of months when HT’s Bhopal edition was launched. Nasir was called and appointed sports reporter. For some one who was out of reporting for over a decade, Nasir did reasonably well as a sports reporter. The then RE Askari Zaidi recognised Nasir’s abilities and absorbed him in the desk as chief copy editor.
I had to quit Central Chronicle in 2002. Reasons behind the decision were many but I don’t want to discuss them here. Once again I was jobless with two children and no savings. It was the worst time for me. I approached Mr Zaidi. He was receptive to my request and assured to do some thing. Nasir lobbied for me. His soothing words were much-needed consolation for me in that troubled time. Two months later, I got into the HT. Once again—it was fourth paper -- Nasir and me were together.
It is not easy to remain friends if you have worked together in four papers for over one and half decades with some one. But we have never had any differences, much less quarrel between us. He is such a fine human being.
I pray Nasir Bhai’s financial problems are solved soon even if he doesn’t have to work in any newspaper any more.
Rakesh

Bhopal Media

Some journalists today got together to discuss media and the shoe. The shoe obviously refers to Jarnail Singh’s. His target forgave the Dainik Jagran journalist immediately after he hurled the show.

The shoe instead hit Jagdish Tytler and Sajjan Kumar. Any way, here I want to share view about Bhopal media and not the ‘Shoegate’. I was not invited in the meet that was grandiosely (foolishly?) termed “Gol Mej Conference”. I am seldom invited in such gatherings and I am happy this way.

The few journalist meets I attended in the past left me more skeptical-- rather cynical-- about a section of the Bhopal media. When some of these journalists rather sanctimoniously talked about ‘declining ethics’ and ‘deteriorating professionalism’ in the media, I sardonically laughed within myself. What a bunch of hypocrites and fraud these gentlemen are!

This is my 23rd year in Bhopal. Twenty- three years is a lifetime. Most of these enthusiastic flag bearers of the Bhopal media sprung in the scene barely a decade or so ago. They are smart chaps. Most of them live in E-type government bungalows. Most of them are saffronites. Quite of few are just semi-literate. Books repel them.

What holds their interest is gossiping about politics and, of course, about fellow media men. They unceasingly gloat over ‘close’ friendship with ministers and bureaucrats. Chief Minister’s company is most coveted desire. They were genuinely elated over the BJP victory in the assembly election.

I rarely figure in their talks, much less in their scheme of things. If ever I get mentioned in their small talks it is with sneers. My reticence ( I find it hard to open to hypocrites, though I can suffer fools) annoys them and they show it by consciously refusing to recognise me wherever they run into me.

I don’t know what they talked in the ‘Gol Maze Conference’. But I am trying to visualize all that sitting in my office. More on Bhopal media in next blog.
Remeber this does not apply on all who attended the meet. My collegue Ranjan was also there. I am proud of my HT team. It is this team which has kept my faith in fair journalism alive.

Bade Bhaiya

Bade Bhaiya- I love to be called so. When my colleague Shams was helping me create this blog and asked for title, I blurted out –Bade Bhaiya.

I am the eldest of us three brothers in the family. But that is not the reason for me becoming ‘Bade Bhaiya’. The sobriquet has a funny history. I came to Bhopal in 1987 but even 22 years after I left Jabalpur my heart still beats for the City of my birth. I am very fond of narrating anecdotes about Jabalpur. Of myriad anecdotes, one is about how typical Jabalpurians get sentimental when drunk.
It is like this.

Two Jabalpurians are savouring country liquor in a ‘Kalari’ (My fondest memories are about Kalari visits are of the one that was situated near Damoh Naka in Jabalpur). One is in twenties and the other in late thirties. They enter in the Kalari, buy booze and seek out a secluded place. Can’t get place of their choice and settle for a corner that is a little less crowded.

Both are cheerful but almost silent. Their eyes are glinting in anticipation of the mirth they will have soon. Bottle kept on the floor, they call for Soda and some Namkeen from the kiosk adjacent to the Kalari. Two minutes later their order is delivered and drinking session begins.

The older one pours liquor in two glasses put before them and looks condescendingly at the younger one. Both dip third finger of their right hand into their respective filled glasses and then drop some drops from the glass on the floor. “ Jai Bhawani”.

They invoke the goddesses with eyes closed and gulp down the entire glass.
Third peg turns garrulous. Fourth peg under the belt, both are sentimental. Workplace, family, girl friends(theirs and others’), shrewdness of colleagues, spirituality and personal philosophy crop up in animated and largely incoherent talks which is no longer a dialogue.

“ Bade Bhaiya , Bus Aapaki Izzat karate Hain , Baaki koi Ho XYS..” the younger says, getting up gingerly. The elder one has a smug slime on the face. I have seen this scene being enacted in the Kalari and in slight variations in other places so often that the way ‘Bade Bhaiya’ is uttered is itched in my memory.

I have regaled friends with this anecdote hundreds of times. This is my small way to pay tribute to the city I love most. Rejoicing the anecdote, some of my friends started calling me “Bade Bhaiya”. Earlier I used to associate the address with the mimicry of the Kalari but , gradually, I started feeling a sense of intimacy, if not respect in it. So, thank you Shams for helping me open the blog for bade Bhaiya.
Next blog soon