That journalists are grossly underpaid is undoubtedly the most cribbed-about subject. But it’s not the money that troubles eccentric journos like me (we are made of different stuff, you see!)
It takes some real time sublime stuff to move us to tears (well, I said we are different - what is earthly or crass to you is, most probably, sublime to us and vice versa!).
Moved to tears… did you just resonate!?! Yes! We are humans too… bit weird, agreed, but humans for sure!
Well, among all the things that have ever pierced my heart ruthlessly, I am going to chronicle just a few here!
Every newspaper journalist or 'reporterrrrr' (as we are popularly known), worth his/ her salt (or of someone else’s for that matter) loves to see his/ her name in print. And, the affinity just grows deeper with time even though many would claim otherwise. After all, it is this love, passion and the adrenaline rush that one gets on seeing one’s name in print that keeps the passionate, honest, upright journalists like me going.
And it is this very insane passion that brings us misery and pain and hurt and tears.
For starters, it is very essential to know that we journos just can’t bear to see our names misspelt. One small spelling mistake (made by the atrocious desk people who simply love to play around with our names and everything else we write) and our entire day is invested in cribbing. I say “invested” cz in journalism, this is the only thing that works besides sleaze, but that I’ll delve upon in more free time.
Another thing that bugs us is if our “position” is mentioned erroneously in the paper – for instance, if a staffer’s name (the by-line or the credit line above each news story) is carried with “Our Correspondent” instead of with the usual ...........News Service, we take it as the biggest humiliation in the world. After all, we have earned our “staffer status” with great effort and the lowly “correspondent” has a long way to go to match up to us.
And if by chance, the desk person deems it fit to rip us off our right to claim credit on the news story, all hell breaks loose – incessant complaints to the bosses, never ending crib session, irritability, “no work” mood, zero input-zero output, no control over temper, grumpy demeanour, unbearable agony, hatred... the day becomes a roller coaster of the vicious emotions.
Another murderous assault is the rape of our news stories, which again, if you dare to believe any journalist, happens everyday with him/ her because: "the desk people don't like my face" or because "I don't butter then up with Salaams and Sat Sri Akals" or "the desk hates me", "they are jealous", "they wanted to accommodate that bitch's/ dog's story by chopping mine off" etc etc...
And like a good journalist, I’ve suffered the agonies of by-lines and rape of the story... day in and day out!! The bosses suffered with me – probably even more... I suffered my own; they suffered the complaints of 256 like me everyday ;)
As a matter of fact, journos like me (made of different stuff ;P) are too touchy about the newspaper and anything and everything even remotely related to it.
Though yesterday’s newspaper inevitably and invariably goes to trash, we can’t just see that happening. We love to preserve heaps of raddi in our store rooms, bed rooms, drawing rooms, kitchens, even washroom, if there is no space elsewhere! And we love the paper mountains like they were our own baby. But when the junk dealer comes calling and mum is too happy to oblige, we cry like little babies – not wanting our prized possession to be driven out of our sight. At last, the mother (wife, in case of married men) prevails and another day of sadness follows! The “ghar soona-soona” feeling overpowers us, forcing us to rush to office – the prosperous mountain nation of newspapers.
And needless to say, we absolutely hate it when our mums misuse our "bread and butter" and last day’s hard work by chopping veggies on them.
Even more than that hurts to see one’s "breaking news" story caressing the unhygienic roadside chana-kulcha or that stale patty from that sad, round-the-corner shop.
The mention of chana-kulcha reminds me of an incident that scarred two journo hearts for life. A colleague and I, starving since morning, rushed downstairs to catch a quick bite but due to office’s godforsaken location, could not find anything but the humble roadside chana-kulcha to fill our hungry tummies with.
On the verge of collapse due to the terrible hunger pangs, the hygiene conscious us decided to hog on the unhygienic but yummy-beyond-words street food.
As soon as the over-friendly vendor handed over a bundle of two kulchas stuffed with chana masala to me, my esteemed colleague threw a sudden fit - of laughter. A closer look and I realised I was served my lunch in my own by-line – one of the biggest stories of the day, by the annoying vendor who insisted on addressing us as “akhbaar wali madam”.
Gulping down the anger along with the kulchas, I somehow managed to regain a part of my calm only till the vendor handed over a similar bundle to my colleague. It was now my turn to roll with laughter.
As if God had wished to teach our fragile egos a lesson through this whimsical vendor, the colleague was served chana-kulcha in that part of the newspaper where her story was.
Gaping and mocking at us from behind the humble meal, were our respective names, in our hands – soiled with salt, pepper and chilly powder and what not!
The day was a great humbling experience – our hard work was literally eating humble pie, that too, on a dusty, city street.
Edible stuff is still bearable, but I swear, when one’s last evening’s sweat and ink is wrapped around things like shoes etc, not to speak of the unmentionable things one does with the newspaper in the loo, the heart bleeds. I, personally, have had numerous arguments, and heated ones believe you me, on this with people of all shapes and sizes. How can someone even think of using the sacrosanct newsprint for such purposes... eeeeeekkkkksss!!
But the worst is yet to come – the nightmare!! And what I’m going to mention now, is a deadly blow to even the hardest and toughest of journo hearts. The ultimate prick - to see one’s bai (maid) wipe her baby's a** with one’s byline... urrrgggghhhhhh!! Happened to me... as a result of which I lost sleep for four full days – MY WORK GOING DOWN THE SHIT...literally!! How could it be!!
Sleep returned only after I got all the bais in the vicinity to pledge to use waste paper pieces, rough clothes, polythene... anything but newspaper for the purpose!
And, this, my friends, is reality. So, in case you have a journo friend (oh yes you weirdos we journos are friend-material, unfortunately long neglected by your society) beware and handle the sacred newsprint with utmost care... lest you kill a part of his/ her heart!!
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