God, LK Joshi and elusive novel title

God, LK Joshi and elusive novel title

Title of the novel will forever elude me unless I bump into Lalil Kumar Joshi some day, some place in life. However, message of the novel will remain forever with me. It is not that LK Joshi is untraceable but to ask on email or phone what is title of the novel he had discussed with me two decades ago would be a sheer tomfoolery. Anyway, the message is more important than the title.  

As any senior journalist worth the salt in Bhopal will vouch, Lalit Kumar Joshi was one of the finest IAS officers Madhya Pradesh has ever had. As public relation commissioner he set certain high standards which none of his successors could match. He could talk to top most media baron and a cub reporter simultaneously without giving either a feeling of being discriminated against.

In an evening in 1992, I was chatting with LK Joshi in his office about literature. A voracious reader, Joshi used to read three books at a time (not simultaneously, of course). I mentioned during discussion about huge problem in rewriting reporters stories which besides being horrible English lack basic facts. He laughed consolingly and mentioned a novel he had read some time ago.

The novel’s protagonist is a sculptor. Passionate and eccentric, he chisels out from a rock a huge statue of a human figure on the cliff of a hillock. On the other side is a deep valley. Having completed the statue, he invites his friends to see his creation. They come and marvel at the artiste’s labour of love.

They observe that the artiste has taken equal pain in shapely carving out the back part of the statue as the front. “Why have you worked so hard on the back of the statue which no body will see because beyond the cliff is the valley. You are mad. Who will bother to see the back?” wondered one of the friends while admiring the statue.

The artiste paused for a while and looking skyward quietly replied, “The god will see.” The way Joshiji narrated the story touched the core of my heart.   

I had not realised how deeply the story influenced me until a reporter asked the same question that the artiste’s friend had asked. The context was, of course, different. For 20 years, I have been rewriting copies of the reporters, even though I was essentially a reporter myself and late bureau chief. Somehow, I can’t suffer bad English. Or, at least what I think is bad English.  

I had finished rewiring the reporter’s shabbily written story. There was some factual mistake in the last paragraph. I checked with him about the fact. He corrected it but not without adding rather blithely, “Arre Sir, who is going to read this till the last?” I instinctively blurted out, “The god will read”. I wondered what might have prompted this reply.  Then the LK Joshi’s story flashed on the mind. Since then, the narration often haunts me whenever I edit stories.

My aversion to let go badly written stories in the print has not been appreciated even by some of the reporters who should have been, in fact, grateful. I also sometime argue with myself whether is it not true that few, if any one, read stories in English newspapers beyond second para unless they are spellbinding. But such spellbinding stories are  mostly carried on page one. Inside page stories go mostly unread. Most readers even don’t take trouble of unfolding the paper.

But, LK Joshi’s novel makes me feel guilty if ever I let any story in hand go unedited till the last word. I am not fanatic. My inclination to religiosity is fairly recent. Yet, any half hearted attempt or disingenuous tricks in the paper flusters me. I have paid heavy price for being stubborn on this count. But what to do ? Ye Dil Hai Ki Manata Nahi.    

   

10 tips to become a successful English editor

Failed aspirants for a goal have been seen emerging as quite successful coaches for the goal. There are numerous IAS coaching institutes run by persons who could not make it to all India or even state administrative services.

Scores of mediocre journalists can be seen teaching in journalism institutes. Unsuccessful actors giving coaching in acting institutes for films, TV and theatres is not uncommon.

Quite a few flop litterateurs wisely switched to publishing literary magazines so that they could pontificate in their columns to budding writers what and how ought or not ought to write. The list does not end here but I have to stop it here.   

Given this scenario, I should be forgiven for offering tips (just ten for now) on how to become a successful editor of an English newspaper. My tips are, needless to say, based on own experience of working in the MP’s English newspapers for over three decades.

I have had the misfortune of failing to imbibe even a modicum of success Mantras of the editors I have worked with.  Whether I failed for my own good is a moot point. I leave the decision on my well wishers.

Each editor I worked under had some peculiar qualities. There were a couple of common points too such as insouciance for quality of language in the newspaper and irrepressible longing to be in the good books of the top bureaucratic fraternity at the cost of the paper’s credibility and prestige. 

The tips below are based on observations of one of the editors in my previous newspaper.   

Tip number one

Always keep a veneer of contrived seriousness on the face when in the office. Even if you want to laugh at some genuinely laughing matters, suppress your impulse. The editor must be seen brooding, lest his cheerfulness is misconstrued by the colleagues as a sign of frivolity and companionship.

The editor must keep reminding himself that he is crowned to rule over the lesser mortals and must not look like them. Also, don’t encourage them to be cheerful either by your actions or expressions. Never mind if the colleagues have seen through your sophistry. Let them sneer at you or call you a hypocrite behind your back.

When face to face, they will desist from opening up. And if they don’t open up, substantial discussion or planning on improving the paper can be avoided. This is an intelligent device to save yourself the avoidable embarrassment of blurting out some silly suggestions or betraying your ignorance about the newspaper functioning.

Tip number two

Always promote incompetent subordinates. They are useful tools to snoop at competent ones. Their sycophancy will keep your ego caressed and you will feel elevated. Incompetent subordinates can be trusted to carry out your ‘inspired’ ideas which conscientious colleagues might balk at, fearing adverse impact on the paper.

Mediocrity thrives on the unqualified blessings of the boss. Therefore, mediocre people should be relied upon to run down and discredit honest ones in the office. This way, you can rest assured about security of your job.

Tip number three

Make easy things in the paper look difficult by bureaucratizing functioning. Instead of straight talking to subordinates, take recourse to management parlance. Issue memos in official jargon, using words like ‘with reference to…. vitiating work culture…the management has not appreciated this or that …I am appalled to see…To the shock of my life… etc etc   

Tip number four

Keep ready some stock excuses to spike reports you don’t want published. For instance, if a reporter has filed a story about misdeeds of your politician/bureaucrat/ businessman friend and you obviously don’t want it carried, then frustrate the reporter by all means possible, without saying straight that you value friendship more than the paper.

You can say, there is no proper quote or the story is biased/ libelous. Instill fear of management’s wrath in the minds of reporters about the prospects of the paper being sued for the stories you don’t want published.   

Tip number five    

Have absolutely no qualms in appropriating credit for the hard and fine labour of your colleagues. If some honest and competent subordinate has planned and executed a big story package, don’t hesitate to flaunt it as your idea before your superiors—the chief editor or the owner, as the case may be.

The colleague could, at best, tear his hair out among the staffers or, at worst, try to subtly indicate that you did not give him the credit he deserved.

The editor must have enough thick skin to countenance such grouses with a dismissive air and bide his time to hit the complainant where it hurts most- namely the revision of the KRA.

Tip number six  

Be always willing to do the bidding of the public relation commissioner of the state government. It serves in many ways. For one, it facilitates good relations between the marketing head and the editor. For another, your hunger to expand friendship base in the government is satiated to a great extend. Government press releases ought to be treated with top priority, no matter howsoever falsehood  or stupidity they might bear.

Tip number seven

When you are writing on any subject, don’t give a second thought to placement. It must be on front page and that too on top with your nice photograph. Even if you are writing, say, a blatantly laudatory piece about some bogus government scheme or a minister’s lofty ‘brainchild’ or your bureaucrat friend’s idea to please the chief minister, it must get preference over all other news items on page one, never mind their news value. Don’t bother what reader might say about the paper. For change, you can write critical pieces against local municipal authority on garbage not being cleared in time. But the placement will remain the same.   

Tip number eight

When some one from the main publishing centre (headquarters) descends on your edition for some reason, immediately shed all the snobbery you are used to showing to the colleagues. It’s immaterial what the age or status of the man or woman from the headquarters is. You should leave no stone unturned to keep them in good humour.

Also, don’t forget to poison their ears about the honest and hardworking colleagues. You will be well advised to invite them on lunch or dinner even though you have never bothered to savour a single Samosa with colleagues you work with round the year. If the guests happen to belong to HR department, hospitality should be even grander.         

Tip number nine

You should be least concerned with language of the paper. If too many howlers occur to ignore, conveniently put the blame on the ‘poor desk’. But make sure that your chosen few don’t come to harm. Pick soft targets from the desk. If readers point out mistakes, tell them blithely that it is not humanly possible for you to take care of all the works in the paper where too many linguistically- challenged journalists are employed.

This will create an impression as though you are the most diligent man in the entire office. You can also argue that since the incompetent persons were appointed by your predecessor, you are not morally responsible for their stupidity.

Tip number 10

Never play with filed stories. If an impulse to rewrite a story surges in you, suppress it. You must realize that you were not appointed editor for being good in English language in the first place. Editing is a skilled job where your weakness will be exposed in no time.    

Aziz Naza and Khatik Mohalla of Jabalpur

A pleasant sensation ran though the whole body as the mellifluous, if nasal, voice of Qawwal Aziz Naza fell on my ears. It was coming from an auto rickshaw stationed at LIG square today.

I was coming to the office at 4 pm, my usual office time. The auto driver, a hennaed-hair, paan-chewing Bhai Jaan in mid-forties was humming with the qawwali. Immersed in the ‘Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Sharabi….” the man gave impression of a Sufi. His head was shaking variously to the rhythm of the qawwali. 

Suddenly I felt myself transported to Jabalpur-- the Khatik Mohalla of Jabalpur, to be more specific. Old memories fleshed on the mind. 

The Aziz Naza Qawwali could be heard from all loudspeakers in the Mohalla and there was no shortage of loud speakers then. Also, there was no restriction- moral, social or legal- on volume of the speakers. Even if there had been any, it would have had absolutely no meaning in the locality. I am talking about seventies of the previous century.

The Khatik Mohalla in Ghamapur area needed no particular occasion- auspicious or otherwise- to treat the people’s unsuspecting ears with Aziz Naza qawwali.

Birth of a pig’s litter was a good enough occasion for the owner to celebrate the new arrivals with the Qawwali. However, Aziz Naza would conspicuously abstain from assailing the ears when police raided the illicit liquor dens in the Mohalla.

The raids happened on an average once a month. When police chased the bootleggers, they would throw the raw materials for illicit liquor distillation like molasses, Nausadar etc into the nullah flowing in the midst of the Mohalla. The effluent would flow with dirty water and intoxicate the nullah. The inadvertent beneficiaries of the police raids would be pigs and their litters.

Completely sozzled pigs in the intoxicated Nullah water were a delight to watch. Since their owners would be on the run during the police raids, no one would disturb the pigs.

At times, Aziz Naza would be a source of group clashes in the Mohalla. The genesis of the fight would be competitive upping in volume of the loud speakers. The revelers celebrating different occasions in the Mohalla would quarrel on the justifiability of their reason to raise the pitch of Naza qawwali.

Good thing about such clashes was that neither side would target the passersby on the main road to Ghamapur. Armed with Suwarmaar bum (the crude bombs used to kill pigs), the warring parties would politely ask passersby to keep going. They would attack each other only when they felt the innocent people were out of the possible crossfire. Some times, their assessment would go wrong and pedestrians would be hit. But such collateral damages would be unintended. 

Alas, those days are now just a memory. The Ghamapur no longer has Aziz Naza quawali, nor the road remains abuzz with cycle-borne employees of the three defence production factories.

Desh Bandhu, Babuji and Bhopal

I haven’t heard of any other newspaper except Desh Bandhu where a senior editor graciously got away with writing against the owner. The paper has many other unique features to its credit of which I will write later.   

Senior journalist Vijaya Kumar Tiwari’s comment on facebook over my blog about Raj Narayan Mishra has freshened up some memories of late Mayaram Surjan (Babuji), the founder of Desh Bandhu group.

Tiwariji wrote that Raj Narayan Mishra could excel in Desh Bandhu mainly because the paper had the leadership of a visionary owner- editor like Babuji. I cannot agree with him more. Indeed, Babuji’s well delineated left-of-the-centre ideological line earned the paper huge respectability, though it always remained plagued by resource crunch.

Babuji himself was a fine writer. His half a dozen books bear glorious testimony to his lucid style and focused writing.

The critical piece I referred to in the beginning had appeared probably in early seventies. Late Ramashraya Upadhyay was the editor. The paper was facing severe resource crunch. Salaries of the staff had not been paid for months. Atmosphere in the paper was understandably somewhat tense and despondent. Ramashraya Upadhyay, a known leftist, one day lost cool and wrote a satirical piece in the paper with title—Ek Naukar Jo Malik Ban Baitha ( a servant who rose to become the owner).

Ramashraya Upadhyay was a veteran and well-respected journalist. Babuji used to call him “ Lekhni Ke Durvasa”. A more apt description would be hard to find. Like the sage Durvasa of Hindu mythology, Ramashraya Upadhyay was unsparing of all in his pious anger. His vision was sharp, pen sharper. 

The piece he wrote unmistakably alluded to Babuji who had been an employee of the Nav Bharat group till 50s. The Deshbandhu came up a decade later. I don’t know what the reaction in the office was but Babuji was reportedly more amused than angry with his editor’s subtle fulmination.

In fact, the piece came handy for Babuji many a time to pacify agitated complainants who would decry ‘uncharitable’ reference of them in the paper. One of the notable complainants was former chief minister Shyama Charan Shukla.

Having said this, it was not as though Desh Badhu was an anarchic, free for all paper. Not at all. It had a clear line and direction straight from Babuji and his eldest son Lalitji. But neither deliberate suppression nor overplay of certain reports to annoy or please certain individuals would be countenanced, though aberrations did occur in the paper on this count in those idealistic days too. Reporters would not fear reprisal from the powerful people they wrote against. The paper would stand by them.

Once Babuji himself told me about the story. The context was provided by Vitthal Bhai Patel’s visit to the Desh Bandhu office one morning in 1988. The bidi magnet and poet used to live in E-22 in 45 Bungalows and Desh Bandhu office was barely a hundred yards away. He was industry minister in Moti Lal Vora’s cabinet. His political mentor Vidya Charan Shukla had been expelled from the Congress a few months ago. VC had formed Jan Morcha with his handful supporters. Since Vitthal Bhai was close to VC, speculations were rife in Bhopal that he too might join Jan Morcha soon.

I wrote a piece in Desh Bandhu on this line. Coincidentally, Vitthal Bhai came to the office on the very day the weekly hit the market with the story about his possible desertion of the Congress.

When I saw him, I grew suspicious that he might have come to complain against me. To be fair to him, the story was purely conjecture. I had not talked to Vitthal Bhai. I felt he had a valid reason to object to the story. Restless, I tried to eavesdrop conversation between Babuji and Vitthal Bhai. It was a vain attempt. The Congress leader was in the office for an hour.

Soon after he left, I went to Babuji and circumspectly sought to know what the purpose of Vitthal Bhai’s visit was. Babuji said he is a friend and he often drops in. Babuji’s cheerful mood emboldened me to ask if the Congress leader had grouse against the story in Saptahik Desh Bandhu. He gave a cryptic smile. “ Gussa Nahi The, Thode Pareshan The. Tum Unase Baat Kar Ke Report Likhte To Jyada Behtar Hota”.

I was both ashamed and relieved. Ashamed because the story indeed was weak for want of quotation, and relieved that Babuji so lightly put the matter of journalistic ethics to me.

As I heaved a sigh of relief, Babuji asked, “ Tum Dar Rahe The Khya ?”  I nodded in affirmative. Then he narrated the story of Ramashraya Upadhyay’s piece and assured me to be relaxed.         

           

      

Dilip Matthar and RC Tiwari of Jabalpur

Last night I regaled a party of youths in a five-star hotel with Jabalpur’s Dilip Matthar story. The story is pretty old. It has earned me huge applauses hundreds of times before but none had suggested in the past that I should write it down too in my blog.

A young girl, who seemed completely bewitched by the story, kept asking me in the party why I don’t write it in the blog. She knew about my blog. Although the pretty girl is not familiar with Jabalpur, she had been to the city many times to her relatives who, she said, also shared some anecdotes with her, characterizing a quintessential Jabalpurian of old parts such as Dixitpura, Kamania, Miloni Ganj, Fuhara,  etc etc.

However, she confessed, none was like Dilip Matthar’s. She was particularly charmed by the word Matthar. Loosely translated in English, it could mean rugged in body and half empty in mind.  

While writing this blog on Dilip, I’m acutely conscious of the near impossibility of creating the magic of narration in written English. The unique nuances of Jabalpurian dialect are impossible to enliven in the foreign language. Let me try all the same.

There was a police inspector named RC Tiwari in Jabalpur. Before he retired (possibly in late nineties), Tiwari remained, by and large, glued to the city – being posted from one police station to another. He was a well- built, Bullet-borne, slightly paunchy policeman with penchant for loud and foulest invectives. He loved to make his presence felt more by his choicest abuses on streets than his action.  

He would strike terror among small- time goons whenever he chose to. He would, however, refrain from disturbing big criminals or mafias—partly due to pressure from politicians/ higher ups and partly for his own ‘reasons’. RC Tiwari was darling of the local politicians as much as of local media. When he shot dead a trapped leopard in a house, the biggest newspaper of Jabalpur gave headline to his exploit as ‘Sher Ne Sher Ko Mara’.

The city chief of the paper, an unabashed admirer of RC Tiwari, did not bother about the fact that neither the killer nor the killed belonged the big cat family. But such was the aura of the police officer that the news was read with interest and widely debated across Paan kiosks that dotted Jabalpur landscape.

Talking about RC Tiwari’s real and imagined daredevilry tales was as common as talking about weather in Jabalpur those days. He was almost an essential narrative in Jabalpur’s socio-political life. He was also the cause of strikes in many colleges.

In those days, criminals were hard to tell from student leaders and their number was only growing. A police action against a criminal masquerading as student leader had an immense probability of turning into student unrest, triggering strike in colleges. Thus, RC Tiwari was both a hero and anti-hero among college students.

This was early eighties when youth angst in Jabalpur manifested itself in a variety of ways—from ridiculous and bizarre to violent.

Dilip Matthar was a small time criminal. He was semi literate simpleton who thoroughly enjoyed running errands for  more notable criminal, his boss. He was an adorable sidekick. Unemployed, Dilip lived in Kotwali area. I have little information about his family background except that his father probably had a small shop which fetched meager income.

Kotwali area had a huge population of youths who are in Marxist jargon called lumpen proletariat. Dilip was one of them.

In between his two-decade long stay in Jabalpur, Tiwari was posted in Kotwali as station in charge. The police station gave him instant fame. Since he was fond of catching small time criminals with panache, Tiwari had no dearth of youths to beat up and abuse in this police station area. This was a sensational time for criminals and Tiwari.

Dilip Matthar, despite his naivety, knew well he was potential candidate for RC Tiwari’s ravenous eyes for catching small time criminals.

So, Dilip thought of an ingenious way to keep off the harm’s way. He was, unsurprisingly, a worshipper of Bacchus.

Amid RC Tiwari’s reign of terror in Kotwali area, Dilip would come out drunk on the street and shout aloud, ‘RC Tiwari Ko Chhod Kar Sabaki Maa Ka …. .The nightly incantation of Tiwari in such a reverential term, he thought, would at least keep him off his wrath, if not endear him to the police officer. His trick saved him for a while.

But, as Dilip’s nocturnal rounds of drunken abuse went apace night after night, people in the area grew restive. They complained to the police officer that Dilip’s ingenuity might sound gratifying to him, but it is actually insulting. RC Tiwari heard them patiently but didn’t act.

One night, however, RC Tiwari felt it too embarrassing for him to bear Dilip sparing him from the torrents of drunken invectives in public. He caught hold of Dilip Matthar and pushed him inside the lockup after sound thrashing. Since no case could be made against Dilip, he was let off the next morning with warning.

Stung by the bashing and frustrated at failure of his method of propitiating the police officer, Dilip got drunk the same night again. This night he was drunk more heavily than usual.  His tongue was slurring, his feet off balance. He came out on the same road and shouted.. ‘Ab To RC TIwari Samet Sabaki Maa Ka……

Once again he was arrested but this time he had no regrets. He had avenged his humiliation by including the police officer in the vague quest to screw mothers of all.            

     

Da, Durg and Dark Days

Jin Ladakiyon Ki Jitni Der Se Shadi Hoti Hai Woh Utani Hi Badi Bindi Lagati Hai, Utani Hi Gahari Mang Bharati Hai (The more late the girls are married, the bigger the bindi on the forehead, the deeper the vermillion in the parting of their hair).

This was Raj Narayan Mishra’s famous observation in his immensely popular weekly column ‘Dhumta Hua Aina (roving mirror) in Desh Bandhu, the newspaper from Raipur which is well past its glorious days now. This particular column had probably appeared in mid seventies, though I’m not very sure. For, I had not read the column, only heard about the widely talked out observation from others.

Mishra had produced a myriad such catchy comments from his prolific pen. Whatever the issues—political, social, economic, familial or civic—Mishra was adorably notorious for cheeky comments. Readers would love his column more for this cheekiness than the issues it dealt with.

The column was unsparing of people who mattered- big and small-- but its beauty was that none would get provoked enough to vent ire. That way, ‘Da’ was Ajat Shatru, as Lalil Surjan rightly pointed out in his homage to Raj Narayan Mishra in a column in Desh Bandhu last month.          

Raj Narayan Mishra, who was affectionately addressed as ‘Da’, died last month at the ripe age of 80. He had earned popularity as journalist while working in Desh Bandhu for over three decades. Originally from Uttar Pradesh, Da shifted from Jabalpur to Raipur in early sixties and settled there.

I spent some turbulent months in 1989 with Da in Durg while we were together working for Amar Kiran, a newspaper launched by an upstart Sardarji in the hope of making quick money through means more foul than fair. Da had a very hard time salvaging his reputation he had built over three decades in Desh Bandhu.

At times he looked pathetic, especially when drunk. I would wonder whether to pity or get angry at his helplessness. The Sardar had hired him as editor and put his in his own hotel. The Sardar’s was a rag- to-riche story in iron trade. He had minted money through contracts and contacts in the Bhilai Steel Plant. He was a semi-literate, impatient, eccentric nouveau riche who was absurdly keen to earn respectability through owning a newspaper.

Da, who had quit Desh Bandhu, proved an easy and potentially lucrative catch for the Sardar. Da too had no better option in the given situation.

A week after Da joining the paper, I contacted him from Bhopal. Da was my admirer. Or, so he would let me feel. He seemed particularly charmed by my style of interviewing and profiling of important people in the ‘Saptahik Desh Bandhu’, the weekly from Bhopal I was working in. We had struck closeness in Satna (1985) and later Jabalpur.

I and Da were in the launching team of Satna edition of Desh Bandhu. Da had come from Raipur to guide the paper, though we had late Shyam Sundar Sharma as editor. Sharmaji, a retired additional director in the state’s public relation department, owed his post to his proximity to Mayaram Surjan (Babuji). He was affable, harmless and master at guffawing at the drop of the hat. But editor’s job required more than that. Sharmaji had trouble shedding his PRO job he had moulded himself into over three decades of service in the MP government.

We were appalled when in one of his editorials he fawningly wrote about inauguration of some project by ‘Shri Arjun Singh ke Kar Kamalon dwara’.

So, Lalitji had valid concern that the fledging Satna edition needed professional hands to guide. He sent two of Desh Bandhu’s stalwarts –Satyen Gumashta and Raj Narayan Mishra—from Raipur one after the other. Both had different expertise—Gumashta ji was a veteran on the desk job, Da’s forte was, of course, rural reporting. He had the credit of putting rural reporting in Chhattisgarh region (it was not state then) on national map.

Da was the first Statesman rural reporting award recipient for Desh Bandhu in sixties. Having blazed the trail, Da delightfully witnessed a dozen Statesman awards coming to his paper in the subsequent years.

We instantly struck friendship in Satna. Yes, friendship is the right word. For, Da was never officious or condescending to his colleagues, no matter the age difference. The bonding got further cemented in Jabalpur, partly through boozing, when he was ‘shunted’ from Raipur for a while. He vainly tried to recreate his Raipur magic in Jabalpur eveninger. Frustrated, Da kept a low profile and whiled his time mostly boozing.

Although we did not maintain contacts, Da would some time call from Raipur to praise my stories in Saptahik Deshbandhu. The tie of mutual admiration, endured through years, prompted me to ask Da if he would like to appoint me as Bhopal correspondent of Amar Kiran. He was more than eager to have me in. That was the time Da had the blank cheque from the Sardar.

When I went to Durg, the Sardar requested if I could stay back for a couple of months to help launch the paper. I readily agreed. He put me with Da and another colleague from Jabalpur TIllu Verma (now a lawyer in Bilaspur) in his hotel.

Despite the Sardar’s initial extravagance and enthusiasm, I could sense something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Da betrayed his unease in apparent disinterest in work. Sardar’s son and two nephews, all three spoiled brats, would use Da’s room like an open bar.

Somehow, the paper got going. Before too long, the Sardar started showing his true colour. One day I learnt from our Bhilai correspondent that he brought a briefcase from a liquor baron for the Sardar in lieu of not publishing a report. It was a clear blackmail. Da knew it though he was not a party in it.

Barely a week later, a blackmailer hack of Durg wrote some nasty piece about the Sardar. A stung Sardar asked Da to cook up a bizarre story about the hack’s wife’s ‘infidelity’ and publish in the paper. For someone who had earned his name for strong socialist views and championing causes of the downtrodden, Da’s acute predicament in the face of the Sardar’s order was indescribable. But he acquiesced in and wrote nastier piece than was published about the Sardar.

It was a vulgar piece of which even a rank blackmailer would be ashamed of. Such was the time we endured in Durg.

Sardar hated Da and made no bones about it. He hated me too but was diplomatic about it for he ( mistakenly) thought I was quite influential journalist in Bhopal who must not be antagonized.

Not even for a day, Da could exercise his editor authority in the paper with the kind of aplomb he was expected. Those were horrible days. One day Tillu Verma, who was made city chief, printed an utterly absurd story about a house haunted by ghosts. Such superstitious stories would be hard to find even in Manohar Kahaniyan. But Da tolerated because the Sardar had liked it.

There are so many things about the nightmare that Amar Kiran to me and Da proved. Only respite for me was a girl friend about which I will never write in details. For Da, there was no respite except his drinks. He had stopped discriminating between day and night for drinks in those days.         

                

Towards realizing a music dream

"Kehte hai, ke agar kisi bhi cheez ko dil se chaho to puri ki puri qayanaat tumhe use milaane ki koshish mein lag jaati hai." The dialogue from blockbuster ‘Om Shanti Om’ is, of course, quintessentially filmi and it was meant so in the film. But somehow I’m hugely fascinated by Shah Rukh’s stylish utterance of the dialogue.

Why? Because it invariably echoes in my mind whenever I chance upon something unexpected.

The last time the dialogue flashed on my mind was when I met Dhrupad exponent Manoj Saraf. It was a sheer chance meeting. I am a regular at a Herbalife health club at the LIG square since July this year. The club is like an extended family where all the young members adore me. Or, so they make me feel. The affection is, of course, mutual.

Manoj came looking for the club ten days back. He is a little obese and wants to shed some kilos of his fat body. Uncharacteristically, I immediately struck a conversation with him at the club. Normally I am rather reticent but in the club you can find me at my gregarious best. The company of the young arouses ebullience in me.

Within minutes of our first talk, I learnt that Manoj Saraf hails from Ujjain, learnt Dhrupad for four years in Bhopal under tutelage of Ustad Fariduddin Dagar, struggled for 12 years in Mumbai and is back now to settle in Indore and try his luck in property dealings.

His wife Sulabha Saraf (earlier Chourasia) turned out to be a cousin sister of Shobha Chaterjee, my friend Alok’s wife. Both Manoj and Sulabha fell in love while learning Dhrupad and married. Manoj and Sulabha live with younger brother Ajay whose wife Shivani is Sulabha’s real sister. What a happy and united family!

Their background inspired me to become their pupil. The long dormant desire to learn classic vocal music resurfaced. I urged Manoj to teach me Dhrupad. He graciously agreed.

Later, I also learnt that Manoj’s brother and sister-in-law too are into music. Ajay and his wife earlier used to accompany Sadhvi Ritambhara on her religious discourses and sang devotional songs. The foursome of the joint family is steeped in music and this is pretty evident in their home. A room is earmarked for music lessons. It has a synthesizer, Tanpura and other musical instruments kept on a corner. All four take classes in different times—Manoj and his wife on Dhrupad and Ajay and his wife on light music. 

The first day of Dhrupad learning was an exhilarating experience last week. How ‘Sa’ is different from ‘Ni’ in cadence, nuance and octave took half an hour to practise. But my devotion probably impressed Manoj. He appeared satisfied with my sincere efforts.

Only three classes so far and I am beginning to visualize the day when I will sing and that too classical. What a fortuitous meeting with Manoj has turn into me! Soon, I plan to buy a Tanpura to practice at home.

All through my long theatre years, I yearned to become a reasonably good singer but music always remained my Achilles Heel. I remember acting in Gogol’s play ‘Aala Afasar’ in which I played lead role. It was an adaptation in Noutanki style and I was supposed to sing my dialogues. Every thing else was fine as far as audience reaction went except singing part. I felt ashamed. All the encomiums for good looks and fine acting held no meaning for me because I felt I failed miserably in delivering the dialogues in expected tune.

Full throated but tuneful delivery is the soul of Nautanki. I was acutely conscious of the fact but couldn’t do justice to the role.  Lack of tunefulness always saddened me when in company of friends singing songs.

We in Vivechana theatre group in Jabalpur would often travel with plays in early eighties. While on train or bus, film songs kept us in high spirit. I had the little singing power to join the chorus that would reasonably hide my tuneless voice. But I would always be a little envious of Tapan Banerjee when he sang ‘Wanha Kaun Hai Tera’ or Rajendra Dani when he sang Hawaon Pe Likh Do Hawaon Ke Naam….. Such mellifluous voices, such soulful songs. Arun Pandey was ‘ Besura’ was it was hard to make him realize that. 

Perhaps I may have reconciled to being an unlucky Besura, if it were not Alok Chaterjee’s observation that my sense of musical notations is very good. All I need, he told me, was to hone the voice through practice. Being a gold medalist from NSD and a good singer himself, Alok must be telling the truth, I felt.

By coincidence, the person teaching me Dhrupad is Alok’s distant brother-in-law. It is just beginning and Manoj appears to be satisfied with my learning. Yesterday, when I went to his beautiful home in Simran tower opposite railway station, he was doing ‘riyaaz’. I quietly sat on the mattress in front of him. He was immersed in his singing. After 15 minutes he finished his riyaaz and putting the Tanpura aside, he remarked, ‘Rakesh Ji wait for one year. You will also be singing like this”. I was thrilled. Could I sing with a modicum of singing sense all those songs I love so much?  

Could I ever win applause in company of friends and colleagues by singing old melodies? I will. What is my age after all? At 54, it is just youth. Isn’t it?