Bloopers in print

Scene 1
Place: Room No. 42, Airlines Hotel, Bangalore
Characters: R, U, M, K and me
Time: 12.30 am
(three on the bed, M on a chair. U is leaning on the wall, R reclining, K and me sitting cross-legged. Scene opens in the discussion)

U: (lights a cigarette) Mistakes happen everywhere yaar. There are enough stuff to write a book on it. (leans on the wall)

R: (sits up on the bed, smiling) Listen, jab mein Express mein tha, tab I was put on sports pages once. Two days I did fine. On the third day, there was this shooting match in Hyderabad. There was this guy Rathore, there was Narang... and Narang scored a second. I made the page, and was stuck with the headline. I typed ‘Rathore roars, Narang loses.’ White space phir bhi baaki tha, so I typed ‘Narang disappoints.’ Even then there was white space, so I typed ‘Narang disappoints again’ and increased the font size. The next day, my news editor called up. (changes the tone, says animatedly)
"Ram, Narang had scored yesterday. And you say disappoints?"
"No sir!"
"He had won national and international tournaments before, and you say disappoints again?!!"
"No sir!!"
"Will you do this? Again?"
"No sir!!!"
(whole group laughs)

U: (smiling) Ek baar na maine ek photo pe gapla kiya tha. In DC. Ram Reddy had bought 5 two-seater jets. So we published this photo of a firang and Reddy standing in front of an aircraft. Maine page kiya, showed it to the seniors, and send it for printing. I was in an auto on my way back ke Olga ne phone kiya, "arre, you’ve put the caption wrong. Ram Reddy is the right wala guy, but you’ve put it left!" Man! I asked the autowala "turn kar turn kar" and rushed to the office.

R: Tu ne K ka Sania story sunaa hai? (turning to K, smiling) Bol na.

K: Bataa, tu bataa.

R: There was this one-day match in Hyderabad, theek hai? And our K went to cover it. Now, there were sports reporters to cover the match, toh he had to pick the side-stories. Toh he decided to go for the celebrities who came to the match. Nagarjuna tha, Venkatesh tha, yeh tha, woh tha.. (a small pause) Sania Mirza thi. Copy file kiya, print nikla. The very next day, there was another statement from Sania Mirza, from Delhi! She was playing a match there!

K: What happened is that I saw a spectacled girl in the VIP section, who looked like Sania. I checked with a Telugu newspaper guy and he confirmed it: "Ya, ya, Sania was there." Phir maine socha ki will check the photos in the office and confirm. I was back in the office and was busy with some another stuff."

U: (interfering )And it went unnoticed.

K: Nahi, everybody knew it. They knew it. But nobody made it an issue. They were short of staff, so they didn’t want me out. Koi aur hota toh he would’ve been screwed.

Me: Even I also had made such a thing. When I had joined DC as a trainee. What they made me to do was international pages. (looking at U) You know how that is, right? (U nodds). Delhi se aata hai, you just have to change the masthead from AA to DC and the placeline. The page came, I changed it, showed it to seniors and sent it to print. Next day was my off. I came the day after, they showed me the page. Top story, eight-column banner headline "Iraq prepares for attack." It was supposed to be Israel, not Iraq!
(laugh)

Me: And a week after, a new girl came for a test and interview. After the test, she came, sat near my desk and picked up the very same paper from the pile. "Iraq prepares for attack? Can’t be. This is a mistake," she told me. "Ya, there is a sub here. Stupid. It’s his handiwork."
(laugh)

M: There are bigger goof-ups in these stringer copies. Once, when I was in Kochi, I got this copy of an elephant creating ruckus. The story went like this "The elephant went into fields, did this.. that.." and last sentence was like this: "...and the elephant went back to sleep!"
(gathering is roaring with laughter)

Me: Two weeks ago even I edited something like this. It was about somebody committing suicide over the LTTE issue. The line was "the deceased person was arrested earlier for committing suicide on the same issue!"

R: (giggling): Really?

U: See (lights a cigarette) I told you na. There are enough stuff to write a book on it. (leans on the wall)

Back to inch 14

Finally, the last piece, the 29-inch TV, was packed this morning. We had an instant replacement: our 14-inch grainy, tiny Khind. But there was a huge gap in the TV cabinet. And after six-month-long big-screen TV watching, our tiny Khind seemed even tinier. Size does matter.

Interestingly, both the TVs were bought by Aby. Khind was our solitary source of entertainment when we moved into our present home. We were happy with the grainy pictures within the 14-inch frame. Then Aby and Mithun went for a mega electronics shopping. With marriage due, Aby chose a good offer of a TV-DVD player-home theatre system combo for 15K. And that changed everything.

The tiny Khind was dumped next to the newspaper stack, and we never bothered to dust it even once. Music, movies, even TV programmes were booming in good-quality sound. Then Aby’s marriage was confirmed. DVD player and home theatre system was packed on Tuesday. We saw programmes big-screen for one last time on Wednesday morning.

We always knew that the set would go to Aby’s new home, but actually seeing Khind taking over the TV cabinet was a little hard to digest. Looked like a squirrel in a bulldog’s kennel. Why do I feel like turning philosophical?

Empty rack

There are six racks in our TV-stand cabinet, three each on each side. The topmost one on the left was emptied the day before. Seeing it empty, I felt uneasy. It was Aby’s rack.

Departures from our original family is nothing new to us. Vinod, a.k.a Thomman, left first. After passing some months in a call centre, he got a job in Baroda, and was later transferred to Mumbai. Then Raku left for Doha, to be under the shelter of his family.

But then, we never felt the void. Lal and Jeeson replaced the first two vacancies. And there lies the problem. Replacement may come for Aby, but our home would never be the same. (And with him, leaves our big-screen TV-home theatre system-DVD player trio, our present source of entertainment!)

Me, Mithun and Aby met at MASCOM, when we had absolutely not idea of what’s waiting for us in the future. He moved to Madurai, Mithun to Kochi and me to Chennai. The only thing that he knew then was that his girlfriend would be his wife, come what may.

Then, by coincidence, our career lead us to the same organisation. Mithun landed in Bangalore first, he next, followed by me. And we moved to this house. What makes him different is his uncanny ability to irritate. No matter how calm and composed you are, you are sure to blow your fuse, once he starts enjoying irritating you. That had a major role in making our den ever-lively.

He’ll lose his 'bachelority' this weekend. Another phase in his life, we are part of his run to make that phase easy, or rather less tough. Seeing this, the only thing that comes to our mind is the unknown pack of cards waiting for us. And like photographer said once, the cards choose us.

Summer showers

Mid-summer showers...

Branches bowing with the weight of mangoes...

A hand playfully moving between the serial drops...

Droplets streaming down the eyebrows, cheeks...

All these are pulling my mind miles away...

Marriage: A reality check

What’s the first thing you should secure after your marriage is fixed? I’d say a ready source of fund above Rs 80,000. That’s the minimum amount you have to pay in advance for a rented house. This is not for the lucky few who’s well settled in their hometowns with a properly arranged marriage and attached ‘gifts’ from in-laws. This is for guys like us who make a living far away from their hometown. And if yours is a love marriage, the situation turns tougher.

We are facing such a situation. Aby’s getting married this May to his sweetheart for six years. She has secured a job as a teacher in Bangalore. For the last few days, the mission was to find a decent house that’s big enough and affordable.

Priorities were many. It has to be sufficiently close to the girl’s workplace, monthly rent has to be below Rs 7,000, it has to be big enough to accommodate the frequenting relatives and the area should be safe and decent.

It seemed houseowners in Bangalore still have no clue about how big the recession is. They were ready to give the usual concession for families, nothing more than that. A one bedroom-house-kitchen still commanded rates as high as Rs 15,000 even in the not-so-posh areas. And sub-5,000 places were shabby like hell.

But he managed to find a decent den, big enough and affordable. And the landlady was ready to cut the advance amount also. He’s finally setting up his home this May.
After all the mad rush, he heaved and said: “Better go for a properly arranged set-up, and make sure that the girl gets good salary!”

Aby was always sure that she would be his life partner. Luckily, the risks associated with love marriage were mitigated in their case. With no plans like that, my cards look blank. Whatever the likes of Karan Johar and Yash Chopra say, ‘shaadi’ is still a matter of money as long as you care how you live.

You must vote

To vote or not. My blogger friend was in a dilemma. I seriously don’t think that’s a dilemma at all. Even if you are totally in dark of the smallest political news in circulation, you should go and vote, unless all the candidates share an equally shady history.

I believe you are not eligible to crib about the state of the nation unless you exercise your franchise. Sadly, I missed my chance this time. With the weekend exams going on and the office running on skeletal staff, taking a two-day off to go and cast your vote was a strict no-no.

Elections had always fascinated me. In childhood, the colourful campaigns and posters generated interest. Later, it was the political equations and personal leanings. The old-fashioned bullock-cart-and-drums appeal were still there during my kindergarten days. I still remember S Krishnakumar waving from his car that went past our house after being elected as Kollam MP for the third time in 1991. He was in Congress then.

My first chance to vote came in the Lok Sabha elections of 2004. CPI(M)’s P Rajendran got my vote. I stood faithful to my family’s Left leaning. And PR was truly worthy for my vote.

Next chance came in the Assembly elections 2006. I cast my vote and came home, only to face my Chittappan and his wife disappointed. Staunch Left supporters, both were not in the voters’ list.

Had I been home now, this would have been my third vote. Hope I won’t miss it next time.

Texting thoughts, taxing thoughts

Festivals and greetings. Inseparable. Every special occasion brings a bevy of e-greetings and SMSes. This Vishu, I was a bit worried. Every greeting message was testing the memory limits of my 1100. What’s the big deal, delete old stuff, you’d say. There lies the problem. I love treasuring messages.

I got my phone as my father’s gift, close to Vishu three years ago. I was packing to go Bangalore for my internship. As I was leaving home on my own for the first time, my concerned parents deemed mobilephone as an unavoidable accessory to keep in touch and to boost my job-hunting.

Greetings for that year’s Vishu flowed in as my number went around the circle of family and friends. Handling a cellphone for the first time, I never bothered to delete any message. By the time I finished my three-week internship, my inbox was full. Then I decided to retain only greetings.

Three years and innumerable messages later, my mobilephone has been flashing ‘No space for new messages’ text increasingly these days. For the past one year, I had retained enough capacity for just one more fairly large message. And when the inflow goes past the limit, I start editing.

Usual ‘hi-hello’ and ad messages were deleted on the spot. Then there were some messages with no names. The senders had changed their numbers and I had deleted the old contact details, making the messages unrecognisable and easy prey for my deleting exercise.

Now, that chance is also becoming slim, but incoming messages are not. This Vishu, I had no choice but to cut ‘repeat texts’ sent by more than one contacts. Time to change the phone? Nah! My model was the simplest and the most user-friendly model available. This model has the habit of making its owners fall in love with it. I remember a colleague grieving online about replacing her 1100. Other than the limited memory for contacts and SMSes, my phone was as good as new. Sturdy and simple, it has braved many big falls from my hand.

It currently has 72 SMSes in its inbox, an insignificantly small number when compared to the high-end phones available at cheaper rates. The oldest one came three years back from Mathew during my internship days, warning about the ruckus in Bangalore after the death of Rajkumar.

That was two days before Vishu. Will I be still treasuring my 1101 next Vishu? Let’s see.

Vishu

I woke up, sprang up from my bed and stared at the phone. It was 4 am. Phew, I made it! I was not late. I had to prepare Vishukkani.

This is my fourth Vishu in a row when I miss home. Vishu was one of the many pleasures robbed by career from many youngsters of my generation. Though not as big as Onam, Vishu had the added attraction that it came during the summer vacation.

I used to voluntarily wake up early during the vacation days then. But on the Vishu day, ammoomma would beat us all, however hard you try. There was a good reason: she had to prepare the Vishukkani. The very first sight of the auspicious Vishukkani, the silver coins from elders, the early morning bath and the walk to temple and then to my ancestral house, and the fun we shared with our cousins...

By the time we are back, we would’ve collected a huge (by the standards of a school kid) amount. There would be enormous plans about how to use it, but all the collection would promptly end in amma’s purse. This routine went on for many years. The only break I had was in 1997, when I was in Gujarat, at my uncle’s place.

Then came the Vishu of 2002. Awaiting the plus-two results, I spent the Vishu eve at my ancestral home. My aunt, who was taking care of my grandmother, was out of station. I was put in charge of the house, her son and that year’s Vishukkani. I was turning 18 that June, I was experiencing the transition from a teenager to an adult.
Then the three years in college, and by the Vishu of 2005, I had decided to take up journalism.

I was out of home on my own during my internship in 2006. My first Vishu without a Vishukkani. By the next Vishu, I was a sub-editor in a Chennai daily. I never thought twice before catching the bus to Vellore on that Vishu eve. My aunt had moved to Vellore. They were in their new home. I reached there around 5 in the morning, and the very first sight I saw inside the house was a beautifully arranged Vishukkani.

I moved to Bangalore after two months. Then came last year’s Vishu. That time, I was hell-bent on setting up a Vishukkani. I managed it somehow, with Raku’s (remember?) chain in place of gold and a candle substituting the mandatory lamp. But I missed the most important component: the bunch of kanikkonna flower.

I played the granny, waking up each one, leading them with their eyes covered, and making sure that what they saw first that day was the Vishukkani. It wasn’t a total surprise; Raku knew it. Guys were very happy, and I was happy seeing them happy.

This year, I decided to keep every hint of Vishukkani under wraps. Mithun and Aby were out, with me left alone for precious three hours before lunch. As soon as they were out, I tiptoed to our regular vegetable stall, and there awaited my bonus of the year: A bunch of kanikkonna flowers.

I was planning to set up everything after everyone was asleep, and I dozed off. But I managed to set it up well before the first one was awake. Lal was about to spring up from the bed; it was time for him to reach the call centre. I covered his eyes just in time, and he became the first one to see the Vishukkani.

I was happy that our gang was feeling at home, but the phone calls from Kerala and the TV shows were more than enough to make me feel homesick. I know it’s pointless being nostalgic. But I still wonder where will my next Vishu be.

Hampi

I was shaken awake by Mithun.
“Da, get up. We are past Bellary.”
I got down from the berth. Tony and Aby was awake, sitting at the lower birth.
“Want tea?” Aby asked.
Just then the boy walked in with the flask. Four steaming plastic cups were handed over.
“This tea tastes special,” commented Tony.
“Kaafee,” bleated the teenager as he took up the flask to move.
We stared for a split-second, and began laughing.

We were on our trip to Hampi, the ancient city, capital of the Vijayanagara empire. It’s been almost two years since the six of us landed in Bangalore. We planned for an outing many times. Something or the other came up to spoil the plan each time. But this time, we were hell-bent. And we had a very good reason: Aby was getting married. The quorum won’t be complete after that. And we boarded the Hampi Express from Bangalore on Ugadi eve.

The place was noting short of a ghost city. Ransacked temples, empty streets of ancient times, broken sculptures scattered all the way, monuments on both sides of the road, minutes after Hospet town till Hampi bus stop.

The huge empty sanctum sanctorum of the Vishnu temple on the way, the huge platform called ‘Mahanavami Dibba,’ the mosque and the octagonal tower in between the ruins, boating down the Tungabhadra river to reach the rocks across, and the majestic Vittala temple... It was like taking a walk through history.

Hampi: One unforgettable journey after a long time...

Gulaal

I was on phone when Mithun called me. “Work calls,” said my mind. I walked in, saw the colour-splattered faces of my colleagues and realised that I was the next target! Bang, came Mr A and Ms S with a load of ‘gulaal,’ and I was left like a technicolour hoarding, like an aghori saadhu. The only difference was that aghoris smear vermilion, and I was all in colours.

Holi for me was a totally alien festival. Back in Kerala, you never see anybody celebrating Holi other than the small community of north-Indian families. For 22 years, Holi was what we saw in Hindi films and news snippets.

Last year, my first in Bangalore, I was on my way to meet a friend on the Holi day. I managed to reach the place without getting drenched. We were meeting for the first time, though acquainted through long online chats and many phone calls. That was the first time I saw public celebrating Holi. That was very small in scale when compared with the heavy-dose celebration up North.

This morning also, I was a little scared of the colours down the street. The day passed without any surprise. Maybe that was kept for the evening. I was surprised, irritated and finally, very happy.I would’ve been angry had it been the water-splashing vandalism that I feared. But this was me, my friends in office, and colours just enough to make us happy, not dirty. Another day to cherish, and such days come rarely these days... Happy Holi.

Latest letter

It was a pleasant surprise. During my five-day trip to home, I had least expected to find out that notepad, lost years ago, and it surfaced from nowhere. Inside it was some small scribbling and, surprisingly, his address. A long-lost friend, I had recently wished if I could trace out his address.

I lost no time in getting an envelope out of my collection and sitting, but took some time and corrections to actually complete a letter – written to a friend after four long years.

I still remember the very first line I wrote in a letter. It was ‘enikku oru football vedichu tharanam’ (buy me a football), written as the last line in an envelope. My maaman (maternal uncle) was writing his monthly letter for my kochachan (paternal uncle). Close friends, they used to write letters to each other regularly. And in one of them, went my first line. I was hardly seven then.

Then it became the last page of the airmail my mother bought. Achan was very particular that his son should write to him, at least twice a month. He never broke the chain, but I did, often. At that time, telephone wasn’t commonplace in our area. We used to wait for the once-in-a-month ISD call made by my dad, at our neighbour’s place.

We got our phone in 1996. The flow of letters continued for three-four years more, and then it dwindled to scribbling in the greeting cards. Picking up the phone and dialing was far more convenient than buying, writing and posting and envelope. Telegraph suddenly turned an ancient method to convey emergency messages.
Writing to friends continued till I took up the job in 2006.

Then, a few weeks ago, I felt like writing a letter to my dad. Envelope was ready inside my folders, so writing was no problem at all. After four days, he called up, asking “What’s this man? Where’s your phone?”

I have completed yet another letter, and I’ve asked him to reply. I plan to give my cell phone number only in my reply to his letter. He’ll be surprised, that’s for sure. It’s been eight years since we had our written correspondence. Life, after so many twists, has made me a journalist.

How will he be? Will he be still there at the old address? No clue. Anyway, I am posting it. Hope the letter reaches him. Hope he writes back.

Recession is in the paper!

Firing, lay-off, termination... For us, journalists, all these were terms related to the IT sector. Slowdown was directly hitting them. We, at the most, had expected a reduction in the number of pages and full-page advertisements. Pages were cut, advertisements continued. And we had a party.

Our veteran boss was retiring after his decades-long stint with our company. The top-brass of the company descended from Mumbai and Delhi to our office. Speeches, drinks and food... and the very next day, news of sacking.

Marketing, which they call ‘response,’ team was reduced by 10, advertisements by 8... rumours, unconfirmed numbers flew like hell. And finally, a casualty from the editorial: Our friend, a capable, talented young man. And performance was clearly not the yardstick, for there were underperformers who were favoured by their immediate bosses.

This is what happens when a media organisation has other interests. When a unit is hit, you compensate it by trimming the ‘lesser important’ ones. Recession is really turning big, at least that’s what my bosses say.

'Slumdog Millionaire' hurts

I am desperately searching for a person who can point out one single positive character in the hyped-in-unheard-degree movie ‘Slumdog Millionaire.’

I just loved the way the story is executed, effectively portraying the struggle of an underdog to claim his love though a TV show, fame being the bonus point. The basic thread of the story is really unique. A boy, in search of his lady love, ends up in a live quiz show. And he knew all the answers because of many disturbing events he had to go through. But somehow I felt that in the process of turning Vikas Swarup’s ‘Q&A’ into ‘Slumdog..,’ the scriptwriters have just painted an entire nation bad.

Children are either small-time crooks or made to beg. Growing up, the boys end up becoming bigger crooks or call-centre workers and the girls turn either prostitutes or concubines.

India is portrayed as a nation were a child would jump into a pool of excreta to escape a closed lavatory, just to see his matinee idol in close range. Well-dressed elders are either crooks or are heavily selfish upper-middle-class snobs. Foreign tourists are tricked to the maximum by cunning teenagers.

Finally, the quiz master, an underdog-turned-topdog himself, so vile that he can’t stand a kid winning the money and the laurels. He tries to deceive him. And when that doesn’t work out, he hands the teenager to police. About the characterisation of Mumbai police, the lesser said the better.

Agreed that there are heavy shades of grey everywhere, and that stares at your face in a huge city like Mumbai. But that doesn’t mean that you can portray an entire nation bad.

And finally, the Rahman score. It’s fate that ‘Roja’ or ‘Dil Se’ wasn’t born in Hollywood. The 'Slumdog..' music in the media because SOME ‘gora saahibs’ found the tunes hummable. For us, it’s not even the shadow of the genius.

I admired the way the storyline went, but what was shown as the entire country was really just a part of it’s dark alleys. What a pity!

Yeh hai Mumbai meri jaan

Out of all bonds

It was the very first James Bond movie that I saw in theatre; in the entire series of 22 films. All others were through video cassettes or satellite channels. And I have a DVD of the first Daniel Craig outing, Casino Royale. Unlike the first 21 films, there was just Bond, and his brawn.

Every Bond movie till Die Another Day more or less followed a predictable line: Suave and sexy Bond armed with gadgets and hi-tech car supplied by 'Q'; a mission; an anti-US, all-powerful villain; beautiful girls on each side; steamy scenes; final conflict climaxing in the demolition of the villain and his empire. The producers stuck to this formula from the days of Sean Connery. On-screen Bonds changed five times, from Sean Connery to Pierce Brosnan, but the formula never faced transition. Casino Royale was one hell of a transformation. And Quantum of Solace, though not as sleek as its predecessor, carries the new look.

A direct sequel to Casino Royale, the film shows Bond taking things personal. He wants to avenge the death of his girlfriend in the prequel. No out-of-the-world gadgets, no supercar. The villain is no terrorist or USSR/North Korean stooge, but an ambitious chairman of a multinational corporation. His object of desire: Water and the millions he aims from selling it from an undiscovered riverbed!

Bond doesn't walk away in style, exercising his licence to kill. He is made answerable to the murders he makes. The villain looks like any regular Hollywood extra, effectively symbolising the vices men have, even with their ordinary looks. And the most important thing: The British secret agent never ever uses the iconic catchphrase "The name's Bond. James Bond." That was the very last dialogue in Casino Royale. In Quantum, the famous bond theme music also comes at the ending, just like in Casino Royale.

Out of all bonds of stylebook, this Bond is down to earth. This Bond is believable.

Height of crisis!!

Why do they take drugs?

me: Busy now?

10:28 PM

Berny : hey..!! no... what about u?

me: Work over

Berny : What’s this ‘lost one?’

me: One died

10:29 PM

Berny : who??

me: Not an intimate

But of our age

Berny : hmm who’s that?

me: Mithun's friend

He was weeping all evening

Berny : how??

10:30 PM

me: Found his body in the bathroom

Berny : god...

me: they say drug abuse

Berny : ohhh

today??

me: this afternoon

10:31 PM

Berny : hmm

Mithun came to office today?

me: Ya

Berny : so sad...

me: someone called him up

he called me, we went out,

Berny : OK

10:32 PM

me: he wept, called our boss and he left

Berny : so he came to know after he came to the office

me: ya

I saw this guy once

Berny : hmm...

really sad

me: Our age

They say he's the only child

10:33 PM

Berny : god...

me: His parents will come tomorrow, I think

Berny : he is in Bangalore, right?

malayali??

me: Ya, he is

10:36 PM

Berny : OK

me: staying here with his friends

Berny : what was he was doing ??

me: Was working, I think

Berny : OK

me: I don't know, Berny

Feeling a bit uneasy

what do they get from dope?

Berny : that's OK man....

it happens...

me: He had called up Mithun a week before

He had told him he stopped everything

then

all of a sudden

10:38 PM

Berny : after some days ...it goes from our mind....

but the real loss is for his parents..

me: don't know how his roommates will face them

10:39 PM

Berny : all that we can do is to pray for them to have the courage to face...

hmm.. I know...

haven’t they informed about his habits to his parents??

10:40 PM

me: I don’t think so

Berny : OK...

me: Uneasiness increases thinking about his parents

their hopes...

all gone

Berny : you shouldn't get upset...

give courage to Mithun ...

10:41 PM

me: WHY DO THEY DO THIS?

Berny : hmm.. it happens....

don’t keep on thinking about it...

just pray... that's what you can do right now...

(Was planning to write something to relieve my frustrated mind. Then she came online. Read the chat after she went offline, and suddenly it seemed a better was to convey the feeling. Even the slightest dose is a key to hell. Life is too precious to play with. Stay away.)

Bloggers Beware!

When was the last time your fingers ached to type out a blog post with no-holds-barred criticism? Did you feel an urge to lace your post with abusive language because the incident shook you up so badly, you almost lost your temper? Whatever be the issue, make sure you have sufficient backing of data for your view, be it a technical report or even media clippings, or else your post might invitate a legal notice.

As a medium of unbridled expression of ideas and criticism, blogs were heralded as the ultimate venue to express individual and group ideas. The seemingly independent comments are not that free — blog posts are subject to libel.

Blogs came to the limelight as it helped readers express their comments. Often, comments on the incidents were from the person directly involved or those who witnessed a procedure. Unlike traditional media, the comments were not edited and got feedback from the readers directly. When a blogger, often biased or with lack of right information, publicly offends the interests of a person or firm by churning out posts, he becomes susceptible to defamation charges. Abusive language adds fire to the fury.

Wikipedia has an entire section to list defamation cases against bloggers. "Several cases against bloggers have been brought before the national courts concerning issues of defamation. The courts have returned with mixed verdicts," the page states. According to Blog Herald, there are 1.2 million registered bloggers in India. A study posted in WATBlog.com says 14% of the registered bloggers actively update their blogs with regular posts. Of the 21.4 million net users in India, a staggering 85% (about 18 million people) regularly check blogs, says data compiled by online research solutions consultancy JuxtConsult. Though lesser in number in the global scenario, India has instances where bloggers had to face legal notice for defamatory posts.

Recently, there were reports on an IBM employee Gaurav Sabnis resigning his job, allegedly for a blog post questioning the validity of MBAs offered by IIPM, who was a major user of IBM laptops. The incident had created a flutter among bloggers then, leading to online debates. Reportedly, one of the protesters Varna Sriraman also had to face a warning from the B-school.

Defamation is a baseless statement that is harmful to one’s reputation, and published due to negligence or malice. Libel is a written defamation. A publication to one other than the person defamed or a baseless argument concerning the complainant tending to harm his/her reputation must be there to establish a defamation charge.

There are no specific clauses in our law for blogs, but the Information Technology Act-2000 (ITA-2000) recognises electronic documents as equivalent to written ones for the purpose of law. The Indian Evidence Act has also been suitably amended by the ITA-2000 to provide for presentation of evidence of electronic documents or as certified print-outs. Blog posts, being electronic documents regularly posted by the owner of the blog, comes under this ambit.

Cylawcom.org, which lists the legal issues in blogging, says that whether the material published is inappropriate is a matter of interpretation and it has to be seen in the context of the persons who are likely to access the page.

"If the blog is accessible publicly, then we can say that any person including a minor, who is more likely to be depraved or corrupted, may visit the blog and view the same," the website says. "If the blog is accessible only for a group, such as sociologists or criminologists who are studying the impact of Internet on the society, then there is a possibility to argue that the post is for academic discussion among persons who are unlikely to be corrupted."

Truth is a major defence to defamation claims, but truth may be difficult and expensive to prove in the case of bloggers.

Comments in the opinion section of websites or those made in chat rooms might be exempted as opinions. But blogs lack that alibi. Here also, the context matters. You cannot say, "It is my opinion that they made the software after stealing my idea."
Pseudonyms do not help avoid defamation charges, as there are ways to trace the origin of the posts. In the case of Gaurav Sabnis, the complainants were successful in tracking his details although he had hidden his identity.

Another blogger Pradyuman Maheshwari had to shut down his blog Mediaah! after a legal notice, for open criticism against The Times Of India. The complainant was miffed over posts in his blog that criticised the top brass of the firm and its activities, without evidence. This instance also had its share of online discussions, and was featured in many websites advocating freedom for journalism and expression of ideas.

"In a blog, the owner takes on the responsibilities of both the writer and the publisher. To the extent he allows readers to add comments on his blog space, he is like an ‘editor’ of a publication." says Na Vijayashankar, a Bangalore-based e-business consultant and cyber law expert. "He is therefore responsible for defamation both for his own writings and the comments published in his blog space."

The debate on whether bloggers should keep their posts clean of criticism has evoked both moderate and extremist views. Though all agree that a ban on expression is completely undesirable, a majority still advocate for unbridled language. Tim O’Reilly, internet pioneer widely credited with coining the term Web 2.0, had recently come up with a bloggers’ code of conduct, only to face an avalanche of protest from bloggers.

"Many people have written to say that they have no compunctions about deleting unpleasant comments. But I believe that there is a strong undercurrent on the internet that says that anything goes, and any restriction on speech is unacceptable. A lot of people feel intimidated by those who attack them as against free speech if they try to limit unpleasantness," says Tim O’Reilly in his website radar.oreilly.com. "It’s ridiculous to accept on a blog or in a forum speech that would be seen as hooliganism or delinquency if practised in a public space," he adds.

"I don’t think that a universal or national code of conduct is practical. It’s tough to police blogs," says Amit Agarwal, author of Digital Inspirations blog, and wildely regarded in the internet as India’s first professional blogger. "Posts written by an Indian commenting on an incident in Japan in a blog hosted in the US is tough to be nailed under a law. At most, the affected person can demand an apology from the writer, if traced, or ask the service provider to block the blog," he says. "We all agree that speaking ill of others is bad, but framing a strict code of conduct is like tying the hands of the blogger," he adds.

Mr Vijayashankar disagrees with the view. "Freedom of speech does not guarantee freedom to defame anybody. The remedy for this should be to educate the bloggers and make them more responsible."

The blog-ban put by the government after the recent bomb blasts in Mumbai highlights the need of a regulatory framework, ideally an association of bloggers. Though the ban was criticised by many, the purpose of checking hate messages and rumours also had many takers.

"Neither a blanket censor nor laissez-faire blogging is desirable. The regulation should ideally be through a ‘self regulatory process,’ where blog owners decide to follow a certain ethics," says Mr Vijayashankar.

The solution lies in the hands of a blogger who bothers to think before he types. Though comments are free, facts are always sacred for every media, even blogs.

Adieu Benazir

She was the second woman politician I recognised, the first one being Indira Gandhi. She had just become the Pakistani Prime Minister, in 1988. The pages of India Today familiarised her face to me. As a four-year-old boy then, she was the one among the three faces I could recollect. (The other two were Phoolan Devi and Madhuri Dixit!)

What made me remember was her surname. It appeared pretty for me then. As the calendars changed, the name became more familiar.

The next big thing about her was the large black & white photo in Mathrubhoomi. It was her second term as the Prime Minister. I was in third standard then.

By the time I joined my high school classes, I had garnered considerable knowledge on this lady. Her foreign education, how her father was killed, the number of her supporters in a male-dominated Muslim country... all were more-than-interesting facts.

But then, she also acquired another status in my mind: Corrupt.

It was 1999, Nawaz Sharif was in power. Corruption cases against her featured regularly in the international pages of local dailies. The Vajpayee-Sharif peace movement had increased my esteem for the Pakistani premier. Benazir and her husband had fled Pakistan to avoid prosecution. Soon, Musharraf came and stole the headlines. I had left high school by then.

She was almost pushed into the corners of my memory.

She gained back the prime slot, only after seven long years. I was no more a student, but a man on his own. She was trying to forge an alliance with the deported Sharif to combat the General. Opportunistic politician, my mind muttered.

However, that plan never took off. Then she chose the General as her ally.
After eight years of exile life, she dared to return to Pakistan last October, only to be welcomed by the blood of her 139 supporters.

Still, she couldn’t regain the charisma she once had in my mind. And today, a sudden panic in the news desk gave away the news.

She was assassinated!

I went up to see the television, it showed her death as breaking news. I was walking back when I saw a computer screen with the Reuters update saying that she was hurt badly, not dead.

In my computer, a Bloomberg copy updated 25 minutes ago was showing that she had escaped unhurt.

That ignited a hope in my mind: What if she escaped?

But she had indeed gone. Another memory. Adieu Benazir.

Job: Through different eyes

Brigadier (remember?) got his first job last week. And Thomman filed his second resignation the week before. He will join his new firm next month. Everyone in our ‘Editors-n-Engineers’ house, except Brigu, is now one-resignation old. Even Raku, who has completed only five months in the city, has filed a resignation. He is on his second job now.

Just 18 months into profession, and this is my second job. For Thomman, it’s third.
Last May, I had made a trip to Gujarat to attend my vallyachan’s (uncle, paternal, elder) 60th birthday. It was also his retirement day. A central government employee, he had spent his entire career in Western Railways. A career spanning almost four decades! He ate, drank and slept as per the railway timetable.

And there was a great gathering in his house. His friends in the railways, and a good number of north-settled Malayalee families; all of them who left home to make a life, just like the several thousand youth of their time, and mine.

He had left home during the 60’s. At his youth, he had achieved what every person of his age craved for: A respectable government job. His was all the more great because he was a Central government employee, and he earned it on his own. Other than my father and my younger aunt, all members of the clan were government employees.

By the time I was in the kindergarten, they were all employed. I still remember the day Unni maman (uncle, maternal, younger) got his first salary. Everyone back home was happy. Being a clerk in a state government department, the day he counted that few thousands was his happiest in many years.

Revolutionary ideals harboured in his head during the restless 70’s and 80’s. But now, he had achieved what scores of middle-class Indians crave for: A government job. A job in a public-sector bank commanded the next grade of respect.

Business, in our small locality, meant shops. Those who made big were the cashew exporter families. You have to born big to make it big. Rare exceptions were the NRI elite, the ones among the hundreds of ‘gulfees’ who made the extra buck with that stroke of luck pushed by the right deeds at the right time.

Persian Gulf, even after the Iraq attack on Kuwait, was a tempting job hub. Conversion offered a never-before-seen advantage. Saving a dinner worth 10 dirhams or 5 dinars and sending it home as Rs 120 was the routine of the blue-collar Malayalees there. Manage to get a white-collar job, and your finance is secured! My father had joined the fray in mid-80’s, even Unni maman took a long leave and left for Dubai.

But government jobs still commanded the highest grade of social respect and financial security. Even the privatisation boom in the 90’s could not harm its reputation much.

Then came the Y2K, followed by the IT boom. IT jobs came had an attractive wrapper of swanky offices, hefty pay packages and a reputation that was far more attractive for the cable-TV-fed net-savvy generation in comparison with the seemingly mundane government job. Demand for engineering courses multiplied by the minute, so did the number of self-financing engineering colleges.

The personality, pace and pay of work underwent drastic changes. Stipulated work hours gave way to ‘leave-when-you-finish-the-project’ schedule. Permanence gave way to contracts. HR guys became trained authorities specialising in veiled lies. All this had a deep impact in the human resource policies of the private corporate sector.

I got my first job in June 2006. By next May, I was planning to quit. It was then that I took the train to attend vallyachan’s birthday-cum-retirement party. Two of his counterparts were also retiring. The send-off party held at the railway conference hall near Mumbai Central Railway station was a gathering of many who were virtually wedded to the department, and maybe the post they held.

Why do I feel that they are the last of their kind?

Bachelors in Bangaluru

“Hello?” An elderly voice growled.
“Hello, we saw your advertisement regarding a house for rent.”
“Yes?” The voice replied.
“See, we are a group of bachelors..”
-Kdap- The receiver was banged down on the cradle.
“Aliya, avan phone vechu” (He cut the phone)

For the last three weeks, we — six bachelor Malayalees — had a uniform routine: Get up, take the bike and head to cover different corners of Bangalore. Mission: Locate a fabulous house at a cheaper rent. Phone calls seldom worked, as most of the numbers in the ads for houses were either not answered or went to a broker. Well, we never had any problem with the brokers in Bangalore, but they demanded a month’s rent as commission for getting us a house, which we did not want to pay. So, after enough browsing through the net and ad mags, we decided to hit the road.

It all started with one not-so-fine evening, when the kith and kin of our landlord marched into our house. Construction was going on at the terrace. They were building three storeys above the two-storey structure, flouting almost all the corporation laws regarding the construction of a residential building. We thought it was a regular inspection, but they were actually counting heads. We roommates were eight at that time, but they “expected” only Mithun, my classmate and colleague, and “one or two of his friends” at the house.

Eight! Their eyes gleamed. The son-in-law of our landlord, who was the self-proclaimed caretaker of the property, demanded to hike our rent from Rs 6500 to Rs 10,000.

When the house was rented to Mithun, it was told that his brother and family would be coming to Bangalore soon and occupy the house. But that never happened. It was a simple lie to reduce the rent. It’s a well-known fact that bachelors are pariah to landlords nationwide, but Bangalore had an exception. With the IT boom resulting in heavy purses of indulgent youngsters, bachelor techies migrated to Bangalore were a sure high-payers for the local house owners. Apparently, the heavily-paid youngsters never bothered to bargain. So they expected the same from any youngster. And the press card, which came handy especially when night-patrolling policemen stopped us for verification and bribes, never helped here.

With the construction above our present den at full swing, the condition of the house was deteriorating. We tried to bargain, with the promise of cutting the number of occupants to five, but they wanted money, and they were adamant. So we chose to quit. But it was not that easy

We were pretty pampered by our stay in Thavarekere, not because of our house (in fact the place sucks!!) But due to the convenience of having Malayalee restaurants nearby, stop for buses from Kerala at Madiwala, easy connectivity to Majestic bus stand as well as MG road and, last but not least, Forum mall. So we had to find a place where we had most of these conveniences. The first source? Ad mags. The very next day, they were there on our bed, and we began frantically marking desirable ads. Then came the big problem: Bachelors? Pay high!

Houses that had Rs 8,000 rent in the ad suddenly zoomed to 10,000-plus level as soon as we said that we’re a group of six bachelors. Some flatly refused to allow bachelors. We were ready to pay even 10,000, but the “norm” is that you have to pay 10 months rent as advance. So 10K rent means Rs 100,000 as advance! Now that was definitely beyond our means. Four of us were working, and we couldn’t go back to Kerala and ask that big an amount from our parents. The focus of our search became the rent to pay.

We fixed a cap of Rs 8,000 for the search. It widened from Madiwala to Arikkere-BTM layout to Kaggadasapura to HSR Layout, and a variety of houseowners! From an extra-decent Sultan at Kaggadasapura to a hyper-tempered old man at Thavarekere, we met a variety of human beings. Many were asking veiled questions to check our religion!

The ‘architectural wonders’ in the guise of houses we had to see was equally varied. ‘Brigadier’ gave a description of a house that was constructed east-facing, but the road was on the west. All you see is the back of the house! Houses literally crammed into the space available, caring little about the safety and construction rules, were innumerable. Muti-coloured interiors with fancy lights, bedrooms that can be used better as dark rooms were among the rarer sights. But one thing was common in all places — atrocious rent for not-that-good dens. Why doesn’t the government form a body for rent regulation? Is the land Mafia in Bangalore that strong to prevent it? Less-rented houses were still farther. That caused another problem: Proximity.

After all the house-hunting with MG Road as the center of our search radar, we formed an equation. Farther the house, greater the facilities, lesser the rent. Nearer the house, lesser the facilities, greater the rent. Mithun, Aby and me had our offices in MG Road, so a farther location was not desirable for us either. 'Brigu' had problem commuting from his sister's place in another corner of the city. Apart from this, Mithun and Rakesh had another problem. Their girlfriends were in Bangalore, and farther locations affected their regular meetings!

Finally, we came upon a 2 bedroom-hall-kitchen house near Christ College, sufficiently close to the main roads, Madiwala and Forum. The rent was definitely higher than our cap, but the landlord decided to cut the advance amount. The search is over, we are moving into a swanky place (not that swanky when the rent is considered) next week. Mr son-in-law of our present landlord, hell with you and your illegal construction of an apartment!

Reserved

There was a small subject in mind when I came back from home this August. I had reserved this date for that. Then lethargy took over. Almost two months with the blank post, and three comments!

Attribution said: For?

Sanity in a world of Insanity is insane~The Insane said: Yeah, Reserved for?????

Attribution said: C'mon. Update it. Do something. Write something.Well i have decided on something.Check mine for updates.

The last time I had three comments was in February. Regular articles these days hardly gather one. The second, if any, would be Attribution’s call for update.
Anyway, I am not planning to leave the page khaali. I’ll introduce six not-so-gentle men; my housemates.

Aby. Sports reporter in a Bangalore daily. Classmate in Mascom. A permanent teasing machine, with whom you can’t get angry. Seniormost in our gang, though carefree like the rest.

Mithun alias Thadiyan alias bourgeois. My classmate-cum-housemate-cum-colleague. In competition with Aby in teasing. We go to office togather, his bike is my official Bengaluru gaadi. Jolly good fellow.

Rakesh alias Raku: Recently christened Rakula (remember Dracula), Raku is a call centre employee. Simple guy who has only two ambitions at present: Meet his girlfriend daily and deal with the humongous number of his arrear subjects in engineering.

Nidhin Tony, or simply, Tony: Nicknamed Brigadier (Brigu for short) for his relentless pursuit of army entrance exams and the rejection in the final stage because of his colour blindness, Tony is the ‘visiting member’ of our gang. His married sister lives in Bangalore, and half the time he is with them. still in search of a job.

Vinod alias Thomman. He works in a high-profile call centre, but hates to describe his branch even as BPO. "It’s India Delivery Centre," he’d say! engineering graduate, settled as an outsourcing executive.

Loud arguments, occasional outings, simple pranks, and heavy-dosed teasing, which we call aparaadham, make our lives merry.

Happy Onam

Death is painful

Death is painful, even more so when someone close to you departs.

Gradma’s death was the recent one, but then it was a relief for her bed-ridden sense-faded self.

But often, death plays foul. This time, it played real foul.

Miss you, Vijayan Kochacha...

Broken Crown

I was a bit sceptical when I came to know about the Tamil remake of Kireedam. It was definitely not a typical Ajith storyline, or a regular Tamil movie storyline for that matter. The story, a tragedy, was all about the dreams of a youth being shattered by circumstances.

The original film had many luminaries of contemporary Malayalam cinema. Lohitadas penned the story, Sibi Malayil directed it, S Kumar cranked the camera, capturing brilliant performances from Mohanlal, Thilakan and Mohan Raj as Keerikkadan Jose, an extremely-hated on-screen baddie in Malayalam cinema.

I had seen the butchering of Manichithrathazhu in the hands of P Vasu in Chandramukhi,  twisting the entire story to boost the role of Rajinikanth. In the original script, Mohanlal’s character appear just before the interval. And the story was heroine-oriented. The performance by Shobana is a benchmark in acting. Same was the case for Kireedam. Mohanlal won his first national award for his role in the movie. And the story was a tragedy.

Tragedies or realistic performances are a strict no-no for the mainstream lead actors in Tamil, although I agree that youngsters like Amir would come up with a Paruthiveeran occasionally. But in that instance, the hero was a newcomer and the crew had the guts to go on with the script. You can’t even imagine going to get the date of a star like Vijay for such a subject.

Kireedam, which means crown, had a similar theme. It starts with the disciplinarian police constable dreaming about his becoming a police officer. The youth, all prepared to take up the tests. But fate plays foul, in the form of  a fight with a dreaded goon, an accident. He beats him down, and the village crowns him as the official rowdy of the locality.

Unable to face his father and always chased by the goons of the beaten dada, the hero sees his dreams shattering in front of him. He loses his career, dignity, and his love. The villain’s thugs aim the hero’s family. Then he takes the big decision: to end this once and for all, either by dying or killing. In the climax, he murders the villain. The transformation from a police-aspirant to a criminal  is complete, as he surrenders before his weeping father.

This storyline would be a perfect misfit for the Tamil mainstream cinema. Here, the hero doesn't run for his life. He single-handedly battles 100 goons, all armed with sickles. He kills the villain, but never surrenders to police. He gives a heavy-worded, high-pitch speech in the climax and walks off with the heroine. And a fan-driven star like Ajith, who has not gone for variety in his choice of roles for years (even Godfather/Varalaru was a disappointment), was not expected to choose such a climax.

But the reviews were encouraging. The story was changed to suit the Tamil Nadu milieu. The role of the heartbroken father was safe in the hands of Raj Kiran. Ajith did a decent job in the role of Shaktivel. And the climax was not changed. I was really happy to see Ajith taking such a decision. Rediff.com slammed the movie but said, "Ajith has to be commended for his courage in essaying a loser's role, not done by stars of his stature." Indiaglitz.com lauded the movie as "a sensible and sincere attempt at realistic entertainment."

But this is the hero-worshipping Tamil movie industry. Nothing can happen to our hero, even if he goes on killing the goons. Sify.com reported a day before: "Ajit’s Kireedam climax has been changed on the request of audiences and fans of the actor. Now the climax has been re-edited, with a "positive ending," and will be screened in all theatres across Tamil Nadu from Sunday (July 29) evening. In the new climax, hero Sakthivel (Ajit) after killing the notorious criminal wanted by the police, a voice-over with the Madras High Court in the background says that Sakthi is pardoned. Later he gets a medal from the President of India and the film ends with a shot of Ajit coming in police uniform and saluting his dad."

Positive ending! Pathetic! The whole beauty of the movie was how it ended. The original climax was a five-minute emotional time bomb. The hero’s cry was not dramatic at any point. The plea made by the father character (Thilakan) was chillingly authentic. Everything was so realistic, and I sincerely wished that to happen in Tamil. Had it happened, it would have been a bold move by Ajith.

But popularity weighs more than performance in Kodambakkam. Unless you have a gutsy hero or producer to back up, the directors will continue to be marketers and the "stars" will never turn real actors.

Needed a tag from attribution to write a post, one after a long sabbatical. And there are certain rules for the tag.

* Each player starts with eight random facts or habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.


Well, here goes...

1. I am a man for my friends and a kid for the entire Makkattu clan and the Vallikkezhu locality.

2. I love to write and procrastination is my weakness.

3. I am so sentimental that my cupboard is filled with seemingly useless things that I could not trash. Each one is associated with at least one memory that makes me nostalgic.

4. I love my village, and the pace in which it is being urbanised pains me

5. I am a die hard music lover and movie buff.

6. I collect stamps, coins, currencies, audio cassettes, CDs, books............even bus tickets!

7. I give missed calls to 21 persons every night

8. I always make it a point to break silly rules, so I will not tag anyone!!


Hope you got the picture. If not, try reading the past posts.

Armless driver with one leg leads chase

This brief was among the items that was taken off the News Plus page to accommodate a huge advertisement.


New Port Richey (Florida), May 11: Authorities were led on a high-speed vehicle chase by an armless, one-legged man, and they said this wasn’t the first time he eluded the police.
Michael Francis Wiley taught himself to drive after losing both arms and a leg in an electrical accident when he was 13. He led police on a 120 mph chase in 1998. (AP)


So much was there in the page received from Delhi. Only this much part would have seen the light of the next day, had there were no ad in the page. This is the fate of almost all agency copies. Agencies like AP, AFP and our own PTI and IANS have some very good writers who endure several hardships to get one brilliant copy, and most of them get buried in the pages of newspapers. It is not fate; it is not anybody’s fault. It is how the system works. I thought I’d make a small change. So here’s the rest of the copy, that was buried in the original page.



On Tuesday, Wiley sped off in a Ford Explorer when the police approached him at a convenience store, New Port Richey police Capt. Darryl Garman said. Officers pursued, but called off the chase after eight minutes because they did not want to put others in danger, Garman said.

Wiley was arrested the next day on charges of fleeing from police and habitually driving without a license. He also is awaiting trial on separate drug charges and traffic violations. He faces up to five years in prison if convicted.

Defense attorney John Hooker said his client has paid off previous traffic fines that got his license suspended and tried to get a new driver’s license, but he was rebuffed by state officials. Wiley’s license has been revoked so many times it is now a felony to drive.

“What makes him do it?” Hooker said when asked why Wiley keeps getting behind the wheel. “I think it’s an urge he has that makes him feel as important and as good as anyone. It gives him a sense of self-esteem.”

Hooker said he had not had a chance to talk to Wiley about the most recent charges.

Even before Wednesday’s arrest, prosecutors were seeking to send Wiley to prison for at least five years for felony drug and traffic charges.

“He has a hideous record,” Assistant State Attorney Mike Halkitis said after an August 2006 arrest. “It’s just got to end.”
Wiley was being held in the Pasco County jail on $500,000 bond.

Shame on me!!

Ernakulam-Barauni Express, Katpadi railway station.
6.05 am
A few days back

He woke up when I got in.
“Katpadi thaana?” (Is it Katpadi?) He asked in Tamil, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes.” I answered, as I pushed my luggage under the berth.
“This train was supposed to be here at 3,” he said in Malayalam.
“Late aayathu kondu enikku ee train kitti!” (I got this train because it was late!) I replied in Malayalam.

“Aaha! Naattil evideya?” (Where’s your place?)
“Kollam”
“Working in Chennai?”
“Yes.”
“I am also working in Chennai.”
“You are from?”
“I am from Kannur.”

And we started a chat on the nostalgic trips to home. For him, it was twice-a-year affair. For me, thanks to the compensation off facility in my office, it has become almost once in two months.

“I have to get down at Shornur and then catch a bus to Kannur. Trains to Kannur is not that frequent,” he said.
“Isn’t bus trip tiring?” I asked.
“Ya, buddy. But this is more convenient than waiting for the train. And it is faster too, unless there is some problem like break down or strike,” he explained.
“Ya, strike. Who would know better than one from Kannur?” I said, remembering the news reports of the bloodshed between the hindutva cadre and the leftists, which had been an annual affair once.

“Kannur town is relatively peaceful, buddy. It is the interiors that are troublesome. Areas such as Nadapuram and Panoor… I am from Panoor. You know the area, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Panoor was notorious for local-made bombs, and many blasts too.
“The rift between the political parties has affected even family ties. A Marxist won’t go to the house of a BJP man for any function, not even for the last rites of a family member,” he said.
“Really?”
Back in my place, social ties were not affected to this extend by politics. Ours was a family of Left supporters, and my father’s uncle was a noted Kerala Congress leader!

“Even areas are segregated as Marxist and BJP dominions. Marriages in between a Marxist family and a BJP one is quite unthinkable,” he continued.
“How would you know which area are you in?” I asked.
“That’s simple. If the flag at the next junction is red, you are in Marxist area. If it is saffron, you are in BJP area.”
“How would they treat outsiders?” I asked.
“You have to change according to the area you are in. There is an unwritten rule in the BJP area that there should be lamps in front of very houses on the Janmashtami day. Once there was a newly transferred postmaster who went out of town on the day. There was not even a bulb burning in his house that day. The house was ransacked the next day and he was beaten to pulp. He promptly secured a transfer the very next week.”

“Which side are you in?” I asked him.
“Buddy, I had a tough time staying away from politics. Luckily I found a job and got out. There are many who have lost their family, career and sometimes lives,” he finished with a deep breath.

This was nothing short of a shock to me. I had heard about the social segregation in North India. Weekly reports come to my office about the social discrimination faced by the panchayat presidents in Madurai because they were Dalits. But in Kerala?I was always proud to be a Malayalee. Maybe he exaggerated. Maybe he was biased. But if it is true, then shame on me!

Give me a pen to write

It was a usual day. After the off-day sumptuous meal, I was lying down. Santosh was typing in his laptop the lengthy report meant to go on print the next day. The playlist of MP3 files he made in his laptop were all my favourites. It always was. Whenever he opens the song files, his choices would obviously be my favourites.

All the songs were very nostalgic.

Suddenly I felt like scribbling. I searched out my diary from under the pile of clothes in the suitcase. I started writing, and after a few words I noted that the speed is lost. My handwriting was terrible. Suddenly I realised that it’s been almost a year since I wrote Malayalam. Gosh! Time does fly.

My handwriting was not that great in school, but I could maintain a legible fare at least in my answer sheets. The realisation that my handwriting was bad came upon me when I was in class IX. I had read somewhere that handwriting indicates the personality of the person, and a steady handwriting, with no right or left slant showed an upright, smart personality.

All of a sudden, the alphabets I scribbled in my notebooks seemed to be in an inebriated condition! They were so slanted towards right. I began using a fountain pen from then, with a visible improvement in my handwriting. I used that till my plus two days.

I never maintained my notes clearly in school. As a result, writing was limited, except for the language classes and math. And during the exams, my hands would hurt after finishing two papers. We had two hours for a paper, and there were two papers a day.
During the plus two classes, I chose Malayalam as my second language. There was much writing involved, though not as much as in the high school classes.

Then came college, and I ditched Malayalam. The additional language I chose was Hindi, so no more Malayalam writing. But in the second year, I began writing Malayalam with a newfound vigour. Reason? Letters!

Berny, one of my intimate friends, left for Coimbatore and started her graduation anew. I had made sure that she’ll write to me the very first week, and she did. Sot it was only courtesy that I had to give a prompt reply. And she wrote back the very next week. The communication continued, with at least two letters a month, till I joined journalism classes.

That was her last year of graduation. Both of us were bombarded with assignments, and the number of letters dwindled to one in two months. Guys back in Kollam and abroad were ever reluctant to write, even though two of them were in a pucca nostalgic set up in Dubai. (After all, distance is the mandatory ingredient for writing letters, even love letters to the girl next door!!) By then, our professor declared a pen-down for us. He said he was fed up with or handwriting and wanted our assignments in print.

The next big writing was the first placement test, which was held in our institute. Then the one in my newspaper. After that, there was absolutely no writing, not even a weekly scribbling, only typing. I could type out pretty quick now. But I can’t write quickly, neatly. It’s high time I start scribbling. I don’t want someone to look at my handwritten copy and say, “What is this Chandu?”

To Sir, with love

This is an article about the man who was instrumental in making me what I am. I have hated this man as much as I loved him. He is K. Thomas Oommen, Director, Manorama School of Communication. It appeared in Mint, the business paper of the Hindustan Times. This is for his students across the globe and all those who are his acquaintances.


In a sea of red ink, a lonely crusader

Chitra Narayan

It’s hard to imagine that an innocuous red ink pen can inspire so much dread. But in the hands of journalism teacher Kollemvarieth Thomas Oommen, the red ink pen is a deadly weapon.

On a pleasant winter morning in sleepy Kottayam, where a journalism class is in progress at the Malayala Manorama Group-run Mascom Institute, the full force of this pen can be seen. A pile of corrected assignments in hand, KTO, as Oommen is better known, is reading his red-inked comments out loud. Informally seated on the table, the grandfatherly figure with the mild tone doesn’t resemble the dragon he has been painted to be by some of his former students.

In a soft voice, he asks one student who covered recent municipal elections how 47% can constitute a majority. He continues to pick holes in the copy in a manner so caustic and witty that the whole class, except the unfortunate student reporter, begins tittering. He moves quickly through the pile, asking one young man who took particular linguistic licence with grammar, “did you learn your English in Kazakhstan?"

Meet “Prof. Oommen”, as the nearly 600 Indian journalists who have suffered, hated and loved the man, tend to call him. One of India’s best-kept secrets, this journalism educator has spent 26 years taking in young, impressionable—and often terrible writers and editors—and instilling in them a love for journalism and a sense of right and wrong, at least when it comes to the English language. Today, there are hardly any Indian newspapers where former Oommen students are not playing key roles (including at this paper).

For a country with one of the most vibrant and free media in the world, India has surprisingly few quality journalism teachers or schools. And amid a widely acknowledged shift toward entertainment and blending of news and paid content, it is even more remarkable that Oommen has maintained his commitment to teaching the kind of journalistic rigour that is fast disappearing from newsrooms.

Chuck Jackson, a copy editor at the International Herald Tribune, who taught at Mascom a year ago, says that an Oommen-trained journalist stands out from the crowd: “Thomas pushes his students so hard that it turns into a habit for them when they become professionals. They know how to get the job done and do it. And they are tough-minded, too.”

Oommen was a reluctant teacher despite hailing from a family of school teachers. He first worked for the now defunct Free Press Journal soon after his MA from St Stephen’s College for a monthly salary of Rs120. “When I was going home after writing a humorous story on an insurance sector strike, I sat next to a guy who was reading the paper,” he recalls. “Suddenly, he started chuckling and I noticed he was reading my piece. I knew then that I was right in choosing journalism as a profession.”

Three years later, he heard about an interesting job in Ethiopia. Soon he was winging his way to Addis Ababa as an advisor at the ministry of information and broadcasting, where, among other duties, he also had to help produce the Ethiopian Herald. The only caveat about this job was to make sure the first page carried reports of the Emperor and his family with prominent photographs. “No name could go above the Emperor’s name,” grins Oommen.

That experience and many others from his journalism career, including a second stint in Africa in Swaziland during the 1990s, now form part of an ethics course he has introduced at Mascom—one of the many innovations that Oommen brings to his job as teacher. “Of course, it’s hard to teach values and ethics, but I would like my students to be equipped for all eventualities and situations at the workplace—be it sexual harassment or discrimination or prejudices,” he says.

Like most young men of a certain era, Oommen pursued studies in the United States. He enrolled in the Master’s programme in journalism at the University of Iowa in 1963. It proved to be an exciting time for him and the world press as a whole: President John F. Kennedy was assassinated three weeks after he arrived in the US.
A couple of jobs at small papers led to the night city editor job at Associated Press in Los Angeles. Apart from reporting and handling copy at breakneck speed, Oommen also picked up useful computer skills as the wire service was transitioning to a computerized service. Along the way he met his wife, Sandra—a meeting engineered by the local public librarian, who knew both of them had worked in Africa.
Despite a promising career in the US, India was still beckoning Oommen. “My motive in coming back to India was that our children should grow up here,” he explains. The children were six, four and two-and-a-half years old and the Oommens felt that if they had to straddle both cultures comfortably, they needed to be brought up in India.

Once back, however, none of the journalism offers excited him—most of the papers wanted him to handle the international pages. “I would have been relegated to writing edits on foreign affairs,” says the man who thrives on the excitement of daily news. On balance, the offer by H.Y. Sharda Prasad, who was setting up a news agency journalism course at the Indian Institute of Mass Communication (IIMC) in Delhi, looked more exciting. Although, he says, at a salary of Rs1,800 a month, it was equivalent to what he earned in three days at AP.

The IIMC job was challenging, but in ways that Oommen could not have imagined. The students—all from non-aligned countries—could barely speak English. There was no hostel facility and, often, both Oommens would be frantically trying to find accommodation for the students in a Delhi that appeared reluctant to house black-skinned Africans.

As a teacher, Oommen believes his golden years were undoubtedly the five years when he headed the Times Centre for Media Studies. Says Indiavarta.com head Sunil Saxena, who taught along with him at Times: “As an administrator, he was very meticulous, and looked at the smallest points. As a teacher, he was beyond comparison. I saw him take classes for two to three hours at a stretch, and the students would sit spellbound.”

Certainly the classes were interesting, if not combative. Armed with a devastating sense of humour and gift of repartee, Oommen used a combination of wit, sarcasm, anger and passion to goad his students. Several students found his methods objectionable and some staged walk-outs, others fought bitter battles with him but, today, those very students are united in his praise.

Prosenjit Datta, executive editor of Businessworld magazine, was hauled over the coals many a time at the Times school and even failed several assignments. But he acknowledges Oommen’s training for his rise, especially in rewriting and sub-editing, and is forever quoting Oommenisms to his desk hands.

Says former student Nidhi Raj Kapoor: “He was very good at reducing students to size and breaking their confidence.” But Kapoor, who is no longer a journalist, says that for all the humiliation Oommen used to subject his students to, he was always fair. Once he pulled her up over the way she had spelled a popular brand name. But the next morning he found out he was wrong and apologized in front of the class. “For all of his tough exterior, he was soft inside,” she says.

To an extent, Oommen’s toughness was tempered by wife Sandra—a motherly influence for many of the students, who were away from home for the first time. Oommen’s relationship with his students was never a cut-and-dried professional one—rather the students just became part of his family. Many visited his home and former students still dash down to Kottayam to meet him. Watch him during the lunch hour at Mascom, where he eats at the same canteen as the students and you realize that the gruff manner is reserved for the classroom.

Ask KTO himself why he drives his students so hard and he is unapologetic: “I explain to my students on the very first day of their class that it is the first day of their professional life and not the last year of college life.”

Indeed, Oommen has not shared the same relationship with the newspaper barons who run the institutes. His no-nonsense attitude and blunt talk often does not go down well. He quit the Times school after falling out with the management. Similarly, at science and environment magazine Down To Earth, he walked out when he could not see eye-to-eye with the promoters.

But Sunita Narain, who heads the Centre for Science and Environment, which brings out the magazine, acknowledges his contribution: “Anybody in publishing will tell you how hard it is to find good desk hands. Oommen’s contribution was in the way he trained the desk in handling science copy and the rewriting skills he brought.”
Oommen then took off for a five-year stint at the department of journalism at the University of Swaziland. When he returned in 1999, he slipped into the role of dean at The Hindu Group’s Asian College of Journalism in Chennai. Says Sashi Kumar, chairman, Media Development Foundation , which has promoted ACJ: “In the field of journalism teaching in India, it’s hard to find such a thorough professional, with hands-on experience especially in copy editing, who in addition is a disciplinarian, and meticulous to boot.”

Although ACJ was loath to let him go, Oommen’s dream of settling down in his native Kottayam was too strong and when to his hometown the Malayala Manorama Group came calling, he moved, helping launch Mascom.

Today, life has come full circle for Oommen. He is teaching at an institute that is just a few minutes away from the CNS school where his grandfather taught. He and his wife are ensconced in his mother’s ancestral home, 12km away.

Even at 70, Oommen remains as much of a workaholic as ever, heavily prone to moments of angst about where journalism is heading or the calibre of the students who enrol every year, and the falling standards of spoken and written English in the country.

“Print journalism in English is going to be a hodgepodge of words put together indelicately, with no thought to grammar and less to meaning, and whose sole purpose is to fill up space on the page between advertisements,” he concedes. “Vernacular journalism has more promise for the future.”
What about journalism education? “This shortage will be remedied only when good journalists acknowledge they owe a debt to their profession and become good journalism teachers,” he says.

Is a second retirement around the corner? “There’s just too much work,” Oommen may grumble, but he’s the first to admit that he will only give up teaching the day he finds his students are bored. “When that happens, I shall go for long walks, catch the fish that have been swimming fearlessly in the Kodoor river and read all the books that I deliberately put off reading till later ... and later,” he says.


Sixty in Sixty is a special series of profiles that we plan to run throughout 2007, the 60th anniversary of India’s independence. We will introduce you to Sixty Indians—both here and aboard--who are not rich or famous or important. These will be people who are making quiet but important contributions, without seeking headlines, to help make India and in some cases, the world, a better place. Please send your suggestions by email to interview@livemint.com