A voice in the darkness

The other day I watched a panel discussion with veteran journalist P Sainath, rural affairs editor with the Hindu, and Arun Shourie, former Indian Express editor and much else, on the path journalism is on. Sainath has received the Ramon Magsaysay award for his tireless coverage of rural problems. I was impressed to learn that he spends almost 300 days a year in rural India, writing about food, power and water problems. A far cry from the air-conditioned comforts of modern newsrooms. Journalism in India, as is the case globally, has been reduced to a commercial venture. Make money or perish. It's no joke, a number of newspapers have actually fallen by the wayside. TRPs and advertisers decide what makes news and what does not. I am not qualified to talk about television, but I have a fair understanding of the print media. A small example of the ridiculous extent some newspapers can sink to. A full page advert about an under-construction commercial tower being built by a big develope...

Listen, priest, I am a journalist. When I need information I know where to look for it! Never did I think that a simple thing such as marriage could be such a complicated affair. Yeah, we all know about traditional Hindu weddings in India, but things can be equally elaborate, and nerve-wracking, for a Roman Catholic Goan . From what I hear, the Church, and the village priest in particular, seem to have a final say in whether two people can get married. If they wish to have a church service, there are a whole lot of procedures to be followed. Leading the way, of course, is the grandiose marriage course. What amazes me is the sincerity with which newly married friends talk about some priest or nun, or OK , an expert, wax eloquent about stuff like family planning, love, relationships and so on. Why don't they just make the one or two day torture selective. Do they seriously believe a stupid course will check the divorce rate or reduce marital problems? This is just another example of...

It's been an eventful last few weeks in Dubai, the land of plenty for dirham-hunters like me. Lost my job one fine evening last month. Just like that. Just a call to come over the next day and discuss formalities. Of course, how can one forget the lovely speech delivered by the chairman of the company. God, he sure played to the gallery. The ass even had me believing him. Nitty gritties aside, its been a blessing in disguise. I did not believe this stuff before, of course, I do now because I'm on the greener side of the fence. Yeah, got a better job and perhaps I will live the Dubai life after all. It still rankles that all the efforts to build up a fledging newspaper into something worthwhile went down the drain, thanks to shoddy management. Big deal! Happens all the time in Dubai. Got the cash, you'll get some more. Struggling? Keep at it! That's the way of the modern world. Glitz and glamour on the outside, crap within. It is frustrating for a workaholic to have noth...

It was hardly the stuff dream homecomings are made of. The sickening noise from the engines of the Indian Airlines (rechristened Indian) aircraft preparing for take-off, ensured that my first annual vacation to India began with a two-hour tribulation at Dubai airport. Our ageing plane had ‘surprisingly’ developed a technical snag. At least, that is what the grumpy air hostesses and sleepy pilot said. So much for the Rs 500-crore merger of Air India and Indian, India’s national carriers. One more reason to turn up one’s nose at everything Indian. It’s not difficult to comprehend why people from the subcontinent flock to Dubai like moths to a flame. Exchange rates aside, quality of life is the most pressing of arguments put forward by fellow expatriates. My recent vacation home bolstered this belief, but it also made me realise why dirhams can’t buy happiness and why India will always be home. Landing in Mumbai, after a year of living in Dubai was unnerving. The claustrophobic Fiat Pa...

Journalism is one career that does not require you to have towering academic credentials. Although The Times of India needs you to! What this career takes is a passion for news, to believe that you contribute towards social change, to put work above self. Journalism of yore was hard. There was no money in it. The case is different today, which is also the reason many rotten apples have got into the basket. I don't think I am a rotten apple, but that is for others to decide and me to give a damn! I started out as a subeditor in The Navhind Times, Goa, a kid with an acute lack of will-power, but lofty dreams. Navhind happened when I was thinking about a dotcom venture, then an MBA. Circumstances conspired to chuck both in the trash! A little ad in the newspaper resulted in me sitting opposite Mr Arun Sinha's great table, talking to the editor who would teach me what it meant to be a journalist. "We'll pay you fifteen hundred rupees," he said. That was a lot of money...

After five years of working on the newsdesk of three newspapers I find myself pondering over one question, 'Whither commitment?' Is journalism all about achieving cult status and big bucks today? Not that these virtues are a problem. Prannoy Roy makes a lot of money, Vinod Mehta does too and so do a number of other senior journalists. So why do I respect people like Roy and Mehta while I can't stand some of the other journalists? Commitment, lack of initiative and a lot of times, paucity of grey matter! Yeah, a lot of people tell me, 'What do you know about people like Roy, they do this, they do that...' That's fine, I judge people by the manner in which they speak and conduct themselves. And, of course, what they produce! Today, quality has been slaughtered at the altar of sensationalism. Yes, there are feature editors who believe that Britney going bald merits a pointer on the front page. Tell them about a pile of children's bones found in the vicinity of ...