Editors in WPBs
A noticeable development in the small world of Indian journalism is the decline in the importance of editors and the encroachment on editorial domain by managers with the blessings of proprietors. In many newspapers, editors have been reduced to being office boys drawing large salaries, handsome expense accounts and riding chauffeur-driven cars. Editors who had illusions that papers they edited enjoyed prestige and good circulation because of their stewardship have been cut to size by their owners. Some were unceremoniously fired, some allowed to stay on to write the kind of editorials their bosses wanted: in short, editors could be crumpled up and tossed into their own WPBs (waste paper baskets).
The number of so-called editors and journalists humiliated before being kicked out of office runs into scores. They nurse their grievances over cups of coffee, but rarely have the courage to put them in print or take newspaper proprietors to court or the Press Council. Although I too have had my share of being pampered and then without courtesy shown the door, I was luckier than most in landing on my feet as a syndicated columnist.
Much more interesting than my career as a journalist is that of Vinod Mehta, currently editor of Outlook. I first met him when he was editing the sleazy, girlie magazine Debonair—the Indian version of Playboy—for Sushil Somani. I liked the magazine and I liked the editor. The magazine had pictures of lovely nudes and the reading material was refreshingly new. I liked the editor because he was ever-cheerful, thoroughly irreverent towards everyone, and an engaging conversationalist.
When he launched the Sunday Observer for Ashwin Shah of Jaico, I was happy to let him have my Malice column. Meanwhile, Vinod was eased out of the Sunday Observer and had had a brush with Ram Nath Goenka, owner of The Indian Express, Samir Jain, owner of The Times of India and Dhirubhai Ambani, till he took over as editor of The Pioneer, financed by L.M. Thapar. That did not last too long, and finally, he launched Outlook for another millionaire, Raj an Raheja. He, along with his colleague Tarun Tejpal, made it an instant success. Outlook is by far the most thought-provoking and readable weekly journal in the country. How long Vinod Mehta will be in his present job is anyone’s guess. He is right in observing that while newspaper proprietors have to keep politicians on their side to preserve their business interests, journalists who mean to be true to their profession have to maintain an objective distance from politicians. That is the theme of Vinod Mehta’s recent book, Mr Editor, bow close are you to the PM?
23 October 1999
Mocking the law
The administration of law and justice in India has become a sick joke. Criminal cases including homicides take over ten years to come to their conclusion. Civil litigation including cases between landlords and tenants may go on for twenty years or more till one or the other party is dead. At the same time, learned jurists keep reminding us that justice delayed is justice denied. If that is so, we can assume there is no justice left in our country.
Who is responsible for this sorry state of affairs? Without doubt everyone involved: litigants, lawyers, the police and other investigative agencies, the judiciary, politicians and governments—both central and in the states. Arrears of undecided cases have reached astronomical heights and show no signs of coming down. I was hoping that our new government under A.B. Vajpayee would reverse the trend of accumulating arrears of undecided cases by devising means for speedier procedures of their disposal. Evidently, this is beyond its capabilities.
The crux of the matter is that over a dozen criminal cases pending before the courts involve the names of two former prime ministers, about a dozen former ministers of the central cabinet and one in the present cabinet, members of Parliament, half-a-dozen chief ministers and innumerable politicians. It obviously does not suit them to have cases in which they are named to be speedily concluded. They engage high-profile lawyers whose brief is to get their clients released on bail and then have hearings prolonged for as long as they can. Magistrates and judges are usually cooperative.
As sinister as big fish breaking through flimsy nets of the law is the give-and-take practised by the high and mighty. They usually belong to parties at variance with each other. Ministers and politicians provide information against each other to investigative agencies. Their rivals do the same.
Whereas justice will require both to be brought to trial and punished, they use their clout to barter with each other: ‘You don’t press cases against me and I will not press cases against you.’ Complete turnabouts are an essential part of the games they play. Buying over witnesses is as common as buying vegetables. If our netas show such disregard for law and morality, how can we expect the common people to have any respect for them?
Dog-haters and astrologers
I confess that I cannot make friends with two kinds of people: those who don’t like dogs, and those who believe in astrology. Dog-haters are difficult to detect because unless forced to admit to an aversion towards canines, they keep their phobia to themselves. It is only when invited to homes of dog-lovers that they will own up by saying, ‘Please put that dog in another room while I am here.’ So the poor dog is chained or locked up in some other room. Dogs are in fact social creatures and hate being excluded from parties.
They bark or howl in protest. Dogs can also smell out people who do not like them and make no secret of their dislike for those who hate them. At times dog-haters conceal their dislike for dogs by taking no notice of them. But dogs being dogs are over-eager to say ‘hello’ to every visitor. Young dogs want to do more: they jump into the laps of visitors, lick their faces, and if repulsed, hump their legs. That should be a clear enough signal for dog-haters to depart.
Believers in astrology are a breed apart from dog-haters. While dog-haters form a miniscule minority of our population, believers in astrology form an overwhelming majority—over ninety per cent. A few you can recognize from the various rings they wear with their birth or lucky stones on them. Most are more subtle and will betray themselves by asking silly questions like ‘Are you a Libra or a Scorpio?’ Thereafter they will proceed to hold forth on the virtues and failings of people born under different signs of the zodiac. If I get into an argument with them, my blood pressure shoots up. They will reel off long lists of events predicted long before they occurred by famous astrologers ranging from the Bhrighu Samhita to Nostradamus. They will assure you that just as the moon dictates the ebb and flow of ocean tides, so different stars dictate the destinies of humans. It is not easy to catch them out as they employ delightfully vague terminology in making their predictions. On rare occasions, they are specific about the date and time of events to come and then get caught out and fall flat on their faces. I once caught Shri Madan who publishes an astrological magazine from Delhi. He made a prediction of a tragedy to take place in our Parliament on a particular day. Nothing happened. I wrote about it in my column. In reply, he abused me, calling me an ignoramus with set prejudices against his tribe.
Astrologers are in great demand before elections. Politicians run to them with their horoscopes and palms outstretched. All are assured of success; and few, very very few, make it. But it’s enough to keep the myth of astral predictions alive. This last election was no different except for the fact that for the first time, our newspapers and magazines did not bother to publish astrological predictions but instead published forecasts by psephologists both before and after the votes had been cast. Not to be outdone, at least one die-hard believer in astrology was foolish enough to send me a copy of a circular letter enclosing a forecast made by a venerable astrologer whose predictions he swore by. The circular dated September 24, 1999, was from one V. Mohana who described himself as secretary of the Federal India Movement based in Chennai. After expressing anguish over the state of the nation forced to go to polls before schedule, Mohana proceeded to criticize psephologists. He wrote: ‘The election has raised much din, dust and undesirable talk and practices. Speculators have been gripping the minds of the people. To top up, the exit polls have added mu
ch more confusion with regard to the outcome and result of the staggeringly phased election.’
Mohana goes on to praise the work of his organization, extolling the divine vision of their forecaster. I quote his words: Tn this milieu, when the counting starts in about a week’s time, the Federal India Movement has been quietly trying to assess the outcome. In our frantic efforts to know the exact result, we have come across an accomplished astrologer Jothida Ratnam Shri D. Nagarajan who has been keeping a low profile and shuns the limelight. Sitting in one corner of Chennai, he has predicted that present Congress President Sonia Gandhi will undoubtedly lead her party to a comfortable win and form the government at the centre. After serious study and research of the planetary positions, he also asserts that whatever be the speculations, thinking, surveys or findings of exit polls, Sonia Gandhi will be the prime minister of India by early October 1999.’
The predictions of the venerable Jothida Ratnam (ruby of astrology) D. Nagarajan deserve to be quoted in full:
‘I, D. Nagarajan, emphatically and categorically wish to put on record that Sonia Gandhi, President, the Indian National Congress, will lead the Congress-led front to a win with comfortable seat tally in the current Lok Sabha elections. She will form a steady Congress government at the Centre. Based on the indepth analyses and intricate calculations of the planetary placements, numerical considerations and scientific research, blended with my ‘intuition’ (which the Divine power has blessed me with), I also unequivocally assert that Sonia Gandhi will be the prime minister of India and will manage the governance of the country in a satisfactory manner.
‘My prediction stems from the data of Sonia Gandhi’s name value, star, rasi, planetary placements, the number arrangements, her compatibility of numbers with respect to others, details of the party and the Indian National Congress, the serial number of Lok Sabha, the date of announcement of the elections, the date of counting of the votes.
‘My findings and predictions were ready a few weeks back. But I withheld the same for specific reasons till the fag end of the polls and a few days prior to the counting. I have pitched the timings of revelation till this day. I have also predicted the apt and beneficial date and time for formation of the ministry, oath-taking etc. and will reveal the same shortly.
‘It will not be out of place if I add that I have devoted my life to the study of astrology and scored success and accuracy for all my predictions. I had predicted the success of US Presidents like Nixon, Jimmy Carter and currently Bill Clinton. I am confident that the success of Sonia Gandhi and her becoming the prime minister of India, is a foregone conclusion.’
Incidentally, the forecast made at the same time by my friend Bhaskara Rao who runs the centre of Media Studies was very close to the actual results for the Lok Sabha and the three states which went to the polls (except in the case of Uttar Pradesh in which he admits to miscalculations). His forecasts were published in Outlook.
Isn’t it time we erased words like Rahukal, Yamagand, Gulikakal and all the mumbo-jumbo of astrological and vaastu vocabulary from our lexicon? They do not become a nation committed to developing a scientific temperament.
13 November 1999
Ugly Indian of the new millennium
Come autumn, most clubs have their annual elections. For every place on the executive committee, secretary, Vice-President and President, there are usually four or five candidates. The more prestigious the club, the more vulgar its electioneering process. Months before the date of casting votes, come invitations to cocktail parties and dinners where the merits of aspirants are served along with whiskey and kebabs. When Scotch was in short supply, I used to accept these invitations but never went to vote.
Once I was bullied into putting my name up for election by a group of do-gooders who wanted to throw out men and women who had made it a practice to stand for elections every year and run the club by extending patronage for personal profit. Candidates put up by the do-gooders including myself, were elected with thumping majorities. However, we were not able to change the atmosphere of the club. The year following it was the same: cocktail parties, printed letters extolling virtues of aspirants, women shamelessly begging for votes for their husbands. On election nights, lines of cars outside the Gymkhana and the Golf Club extended over 200 yards on each side.
I have reason to believe the same happens in most well-known clubs in Kolkata, Mumbai and Chennai. Our cities have new names, but their citizens have not changed in their habits. If the rich, educated, urban elite hunger for petty posts in the governing bodies of clubs, is it surprising that for every panchayat, zilla parishad, Vidhan Sabha and Parliament seat, there are dozens of aspirants and everyone elected wants to be a pradhan or cabinet minister no matter how many parties he has to ditch, how many colleagues he or she has to stab in the back?
We have always been a nation of self-seeking sycophants. This national characteristic has assumed epidemic proportions. We are stricken with the disease of Chaudharis—everyone wants to be the leader of his area. The pretence is always the same: ‘I want to serve the people.’ Never before have the words ‘social service’ been as prostituted as they are today. What hope is there for our country as it enters the new millennium?
A nation of litterbugs
There was a time when Lodhi Park was the most scenic in the country: half-a-dozen ancient mosques, mausolea and a stone bridge spread over sprawling acres of green lawns, flowering trees and an enclosed garden full of exotic varieties of roses. During the summer months, the fragrance of maulsari spread everywhere. The park was rich with bird and animal life. At one time, partridges, peacocks and wild hares scampered around the bushes. During the Raj days, a cinder track ran round the park on which sahib log both white and brown, exercised their horses.
For some years after Independence, valiant attempts were made to enhance the beauty of the park. The moat around Sikander Lodhi’s tomb was filled with water, and a fountain in its midst sprouted a jet of water over fifty feet in the air. The park was kept scrupulously clean, the lawns kept evergreen with sprinklers spraying clean water on them and mowed regularly. I took my evening walks in the park. It was the favourite place of Simba my Alsatian who loved running alongside the car over the ancient bridge into the car park in the centre. Occasionally he scented a hare or a peacock and chased it till he was out of breath. When Simba died, I stopped going to the park. Apart from losing my companion, I found far too many people about to be able to spend a quiet evening all by myself.
After a lapse of many years, I have resumed taking my evening walks in Lodhi Park. Many changes have taken place. All its four entrances are clogged with cars. That is to be expected, as the number of walkers has gone up by the thousands. Partridges, peacocks and hares have vanished. So have many birds. Now, only crows, pigeons and mynahs are seen.
The moat is almost always dry or covered with green slime in which even frogs can’t survive. The fountain no longer sprouts a jet of water and the lawns are watered with water that is unfiltered. The stench of sewage is all-pervasive. Hordes of picnickers throng the park on holidays and leave paper plates, plastic tumblers and plates strewn all over the lawns.
Metal containers meant for garbage, bearing the signs ‘use me’, are not used. Nobody comes to clear the litter. For days on end I have sat on the steps of an old mosque facing the same crumpled remains of plastic water bottles and empty bags of potato chips. A dozen khomchawalas selling ingredients for bhelpuri do the rounds. Their patrons leave empty leaf cups all over. Without doubt, most people who come to the park belong to the educated, upper class. Parents don’t tell their children that littering is unsocial, and unhygienic. School teachers don’t bother to tell students that garbage should be deposited in garbage bins.
Anywhere else in the world, a person throwing a cigarette butt or an empty match box in a public place would be immediately arrested and fined. But not in what was once one of the most beautiful parks in the world. Virtually the only part of Lodhi Gardens stil
l left free is the stone-paved path which runs round it. It is no longer safe for people of my age who walk slowly. Young men go round at breakneck speed; young girls with big bosoms and fat behinds jog past swaying their arms wildly. For the old, it is only a few benches or steps of old buildings to sit on and brood over days gone by.
I do not know who is in charge of Lodhi Gardens. If it is the Archaeological Department, it is doing a very shoddy job of repairing old monuments. (Ancient walls have been plastered over with light yellow plaster that robs it of its antiquity.) It is also responsible for the upkeep of the lawns. Apparently, clearing litter is not one of its responsibilities.
4 December 1999
Thumbs up, thumbs down
In ancient Rome, warriors fought against each other in public arenas. When one fell down, the victor looked up to the spectators for their final verdict. If they wanted the defeated man’s life to be spared, they pointed their thumbs upwards; if they wanted him to be killed, they pointed their thumbs downwards. The practice has continued in our times: when we want to wish someone good luck, we give him the thumbs up sign; when we want someone to be destroyed, we give them thumbs down.
Big Book of Malice Page 15