Jack T. Chakhesang
[dropcap]S[/dropcap]everal years ago, when I was free-lancing as a journalist in the capital (Oking?) of the country, I had a tough time to get an entry. Took some time, but I had well wishers of from old associations and a couple of new friends.
Usually, the journalists in New Delhi go to Parliament House at around 1 pm and then they come back, file their reports, and say, by 7.30 pm or about a half an hour later, we land up at the Press Club. On particular evening, there were five fellow journalists who were seated at the next table.Sure, it took a while for them to relax from the tensions of news reporting especially form the Lok Sabha which be spread worldwide and their reputations would much depend on it. However, sometimes, journalists can even be eavesdroppers (but not truly in a negative sense—just say out of a bad habit?). Whatever, on my table it was boring at that moment. So, I heard loud arguments from the table next.
It so happened that there were five colleagues working for the same national paper but whwo happened to be from different States. As their tensions eased, one of them declared: “Hey! Brothers! As you all know I hail from U.P. (Uttar Pradesh). What you you sometime do not acknowledge is that my “Oopee” is the premier State of India. We have produced the maximum number of Prime Ministers, Ministers and Brahmin IAS Officers. “That is why, U.P.—the land of Sadhus and the origins of the Hindu “dharma” is represented on the Indian national flafg by the colour Saffron!”
Now, the next one to also put forth his contention was from Gujarat. He said: “Perhaps, brother you may have a point. But please take into account the fact that India is world famous for its no-violence policy and our Mahatma Gandhi was the embodiment of it. Therefore, the white colour of the Indian flag which is in the middle—and rightly so—also represents Gujarat (at that point of time Narendra Modi was unheard of).
Then after a swig the South Indian said (perhaps not to be outdone) asserted: “Look, my fellow countrymen from the North, I will accept the Punjab is the wheat belt of India. And whenever we need to partake of wheat we pay for it. But the South India comprising four States plus neighbouring ones Odisha and Wes Bengal not to speak of others are basically rice eating lands. That is why we can communicate with all the North-Eastern States! Forget about China, Japan and others.!”
Then the fourth journalist, who perhaps did not want to take it lying down, said: “Well, Saathi log (friends) I have heard your views. Fine. What I would only like to put across is that while the colours of our national flag have been covered, please look to the centre of it and you will see the Ashok Chkra which has its roots from my Bihar. In addition, all Indian Government documents use the Ashoka Pillar is its official symbol. So, my fellow countrymen, we all have given our contribution.
I listened intently. The fifth scribe remained silent for some time. So, his colleagues badgered him as to what his “Sardarji” Punjab contributed to India’s national flag. Finally, the Sardarji reverted toi his native language. He said, “..….Tusi nahin jaanta. Jhanda di danda Punjab hega!” (You jokers! Don’t you ever understand that the pole of the Indian national flag represents the Punjab?)
Well, such things happen in life. Surely, every profession has its ups and downs and which a literary guy might just describe as vicissitudes of life—or a more down to earth guy would say “hazards of the profession.
Perhaps to write of journalism might not be the best appropriate at this juncture when practically everyone is concerned about the Christmas, New Year Celebrations plus school/college fee admissions at al. However, what I wish to convey to our dear readers is that journalists are also among the majority because we also live from hand to out (maybe sometimes with piece of meat between our fingers).
The only slight difference might be that while the world sleeps satiated with the blessings of whatever they deserve, journalists still work late at night and into the morning so that the people might get the latest news whether good or bad or whatever.
Another young man asked me how he could he become a journalist. My first query: “You really interested?” He answered in the affirmative.
My first advice was: “Don’t ever try to be a journalist especially for any newspaper whether local, regional, national or even international. I have worked in all of them. Better you try for something better. This is an unstable profession and if you do not have the wiles you may fall by the wayside. I survived for other reasons of writing. And yet, if you really want to join the profession, the m keep in mind you’re your clear bio-data and no recommendation. We will teach you.
“Why? This is not a Government job and no recommendation can advance you in your profession. One basic trick of writing is accuracy as to facts, deliverance in time and the courage to what you write. Above, you must have command of the language. Big shots are in power but for how long? Journalists will still keep typing their views on the computer. Got the gall? If so, we’ll meet again, Take care.”
A college student nephew of mine asked me: “Uncle, what is pre Christmas?” My reaction: “You don’t’know?” His reaction: “Please elaborate.”
Definitely, it was a good question and as it is we all took Pre-Christmas celebrations for granted. So this question gave me some home work in my mind, I told him that all people who work in various offices, organizations, newspapers or whatever commercial enterprises, take at least a couple of days to celebrate their Christmas with their near and dear ones. From this it follows that for some time at least they are away from their colleagues. And so, Pre-Christmas is a celebrations with our colleagues, friends and well wishers—in a sense as good as the real Christmas Day celebrations which differs from culture to culture.
However, I can’t resist one story which was never printed anywhere. It is about an Editor who wrote an obituary of a public of Dimapur. True, the leader had indeed gone to Vellore but returned fine. When the obituary appeared in a local daily that he had died, the same the leader’s sons arrived Kohima hell bent for leather.
It just happened that I landed up at that office and the then Editor was sweating worse than a pig. He apologized. But they were unforgiving. However, it so happened that I knew one of the brothers well and upon sincere pleading, the eldest brother who was the most furious, agreed provided I wrote the draft of the apology which I did but it took almost two hours to satisfy and pacify him.
You see, in journalism many things can be overlooked or forgiven but this editor without any confirmation (there were no Mobile services or PCO at that time) wrote as the last paragraph:
“Many VIPs and dignitaries went and paid their respects to the departed soul.”
