Citizen Journalist

People on the street always have the best lines. None of my deeply thought-out scripts, or pun-laden headlines ever match up. It’s probably the combined effect of their resignation and rage, the unchecked discharge of colloquial lingo, or maybe even the freedom of unaccountability. But they always say it best.

Which is why some channels (like the one I work for) decided to hand the mike to the man/woman on the street. Made them single-cause journalists. And basically just let them to vent their ire on national television.

The idea seems simple enough…. Storytellers are everywhere. In courts, hospitals, police stations, neighborhood parks, aunties’ homes, even sharing your seat on trains. There were too many complaints, and too few reporters. And I’ll admit, not all stories, especially the repetitive ones about potholes and vague ones about corrupt politicians, inspire a half-an-hour special show. But there were definitely many others that did.

Hence, a Citizen Journalist Show. Since the word has been out, so many people have written, called, met us, armed with horrible stories, touching anecdotes, ambitious investigations. But most of all, with little significant stories and complaints.

My role is to be the quasi reporter. Helping anguished first-time reporters to spit fire, take on erring officials, shoot blurred visuals of appalling callousness. It turns out, it’s not as easy as we thought it would be. Many citizen journalists have terrific stories, but cannot articulate it suitably on an English channel. They visibly freeze as soon as the camera comes on. Language and lens has been our, and their, greatest stumbling block.

For instance, a man in Maharashtra told us how government milk dairies have transferred all their work to private players. But he spoke only Marathi. And winced involuntarily every time he looked at the camera, looking repulsed by the very sight of the lens. Finally, we worked around that with less-impactful but inescapable English translations and paradubs.

There have been many others who’ve come with a fantastic story, bowled us over with their oration and passion. But when the essential ground checks are done, we discover a factual error, vested interest, or an exaggeration. It’s shameful and disappointing each time, especially after all the faith we instinctively place in citizenry. Earlier, the discerning ear was reserved for those in power. It is now turned to the citizen as well.

But once doubt is out of the way, we hit the street.

Every time I work with a citizen journalist, there is mutual astonishment. They’re surprised by how much work goes into a seemingly simple 2-minute story. And I marvel at how the soft-spoken woman turns into a raging truthseeker when she encounters deaf ears everywhere; or how the aggressive residential association president bows in all servile glory in front of the Mayor he was supposed to take on.

And then there are quirks. My colleague first explained, then forbade a lady fighting for rape victims from reapplying bright red lipstick every few minutes. I turned virtually into a speech coach for a rapid-talker trying to say why Andhra Pradesh didn’t care for its farmers. Another time, I had to keep barking at a guy who was a detail-fiend: “In 1977, I bought land in No.12, 5^th street, Ganeshapalya Road, Near Sai Baba Ashrama, and visited the lawyer at 3 pm on 12.12.1977….” Another man couldn’t understand volume control, another refused to do any retakes when there was a crowd watching. This got especially complicated, given he was venting about crowded buses.

They call for days after that, asking when their story would make it on air, and at what time. Some introduce us to more zealous citizen journalists in their family. Some ask whether they can send their bio-datas and if they would get a job.

But somehow, even if their eyes are shifty, even if they lapse into their mother tongue, or lose the point in the flurry of details, they still say it best. Some see answers to their long-pending RTIs, some see that urgent water requirement being met, some see the donation-demanding colleges in Court. But the blind citizen journalist is still not allowed to open a bank account, the Bangaloreans still don’t have a cycling lane, the old zoo valiantly guarded by Mumbaiites is still coming down.

We repeatedly visit these causes with the citizens… but many give up. Those who plough ahead, however, see the cause to the end. Even after they stop reporting on camera. Because, as they all always admit during the shoots, they’ve “always wanted to get into journalism”.

travel notes

Two months of rapidly passing clouds, trees, yellow dividers. Thoughts flew, new colours surprised, the blur was welcome. Introspection? In gallons, flowing into every landscape, and entering every relived conversation. Many faces and places merge now; I credit someone’s joke to someone else, too many anecdotes put away for the right audience have now faded.
But some things, not photographed, not talked about, still linger.

The face of the man from Hyderabad who took my window seat without asking

A day slowly begun in Bangalore. Contentment rushing through my blood that cool Sunday morning by Cubbon Park.

The informed knowledge of a night blacked out in Phuket, and the balding guitarist at the bar.

A new country seen with the oldest bestest friends.

The locket worn by the Bangkok taxi driver whose name meant “a good man”. And the story of how he met his wife (she was posh hotel clerk, he was bell boy)

“I’m going to live to 120” in five languages. Said in rapid succession by the 107-year-old woman in Chennai.

The little Sikh boy trying to eat a banana while holding a sword, in a rally before Guru Nanak Jayanthi in Amritsar

The usher at Wagah Border who goaded the Indians to out-scream the Pakistanis

Walking on Valmiki beach, Chennai, hopping to avoid stepping on poo, looking for the turtles that’ll come only in February

Mushraf, photographer at Taj Mahal, who disappeared with my parents’ eternal-love photograph

Realising while talking to a friend I’d mixed up Bay of Bengal and Arabian Sea. Eyes shut tight in embarrassment. Followed by a desperate attempt at memorizing the India map.

The wonderfully half-read novels, abandoned to accommodate occasional staring from the window

The puncture changed in Warangal while convincing sickle-armed men claiming to be Naxalites that we meant no harm.

The search for local food in dim lit streets, and temple premises

The elation of constant motion still tickles my feet. Tired, dusty feet greedily ask for more. More people to ask directions from, more train food to be complained about, more after-mints to nibble on flights. And through cursing and hating packing and unpacking, I jog my brain for even the semblance of clarity it had when on the road.

Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships, or trains. There is an almost quaint correlation between what is before our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at time requiring large views, and new thoughts, new places. Introspective reflections that might otherwise be liable to stall are helped along by the flow of the landscape.

- Alain de Botton, Art of Travel

parfum. From this angle

Sometimes, the lens view takes over real life.
A casual conversation suddenly hushes all ambient sounds. A random passerby looks at his watch in slow motion, the tick from minute-15 to minute-16 audible a mile away. A child’s white-knuckled grip on her mother’s shoulder more desperate, the otherwise infuriating honking joyously cacophonous, even the cemented grey of flyovers meaningfully gloomy.

The job behind the camera has shown me how exactly to achieve teemingness in a not-so-crowded street. How to capture the brightest festivity in a low-key celebration. I now see potential in every moment.
And add to that obsessive movie watching. Everything these days looks like a scene from a movie recently seen, or a dream dreamt with spectacular cinematography.
Which means, out of the job, I’m pretty much living in dramatized moments.

One such is the Sunday autorichshaw ride. All is quiet after the initial bargaining session. The put-put-put is all I can hear. And the flow of unfinished sounds from scenes that zip past. I consider closing my eyes.

“Madam, the perfume you’re wearing…. It’s very good.”

I’m jolted awake.
This is not the opening line of any of my auto-men conversations. Not weather, not traffic, not those damn politicians. He spoke about perfume. My perfume.
Before I figure out why I should feel a comment about my perfume is too personal, he adds to the discomfort.
“What message are you trying to give by wearing that perfume?”

There. His T-shirt turns redder, the put-put-put softens, the situation slows down. A lock of my hair flies slowly onto my face. It’s cinema time.

“Message?”
“Yes, don’t you think everyone has their own unique smell?”
This, he asks in perfect English.
Is he a man with no personal smell, but supreme olfactory senses? Is he on an autorickshaw ride in search of smells he wants to bottle?

“It’s a smell I like. So the message is only that I’m wearing something I like.”
“So, madam, it’s not for others?”
“No, definitely not. Why would you think it has a message for anyone?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t everyone do everything only for others these days?”

Pause. Pregnant.
“Madam, which part of South are you from?”
(How?! But yay, he knows there are 4 states and not just one idli-shaped island)

“Why are you so sure I’m from South India?”
“You called me ‘sir’,” he beams into the rear-view mirror.

Then there was mention of my grey hair, his laughing confession about his sham musical talent until he played the flute at his sister’s wedding. His probing questions about why I didn’t wear any symbol of wedlock. His knowing grin when I say, “Only if the aadmi will wear it too.” His sad definition of ambition as a fading dream. His rejection of associations with Delhi.
40 minutes later, he shakes my hand and appreciates the conversation.
“Aaj kal traffic ko gaali dene ke siva koi kya baath kartha hai?” (These days, who says anything but to curse the traffic?”)

He wasn’t a perfume bottler, but he owned every second of the 40-minute film.
The ambient noise returns.

media wart

There are some men on the bus I would never sit next to. Some people in the office I would never ask help from. Some writers I’d never read after a really offensive book/article. Once the judgement shapes itself, it takes too much to remold it. I’ve always been quite at peace with my little prejudices. (Not to be equated with customs officials detaining a passenger because he has a Muslim name) Until recently.

Being at the receiving end of niggling suspicion isn’t pleasant. At all. I faced not one, but several raised eyebrows recently.

A film festival on sexuality and being queer is, to me, a great effort at awareness, clarification, and celebration. And I said so. But because I held a mike in my hand and had a cameraman in tow, this was simply chastised by many as a cover to a more malicious intent. Skeptics felt (some even said) I was being warm so some poor soul would unwittingly reveal he had a boyfriend and I’d flash his “disgusting illegal desires” on TV news.

First, I was asked if it was a Hindi or English channel. The latter put most people at ease. I was even sent after a journalist from a sister Hindi channel to have a “journo-to-journo talk and ask her to please not shoot the people who’ve come to the festival”. I was, on the other hand, given a relatively free hand. Decent English channel privileges.

Then there were those who asked me pointedly whether I knew what LGBT was. “Do you know the difference between a hijra and a transsexual?” Each time I interviewed a filmmaker, I went through a test designed to ensure failure. This, I could handle. But the cold shoulders, obvious escapades behind curtains, sudden cropping up of super-urgent appointments— the passive avoidance tactics… these were purely insulting. People would probably have been more welcoming if I were digging at my oozy wart with my claws. Even in that case, I’d have to dump my Press ID card and mike somewhere.

To make things worse, my cameraman, utterly unused to any expression of sexuality outside a drunken boys’ party, was shooting away. The posters, films, anybody holding hands... everything was material. It was worrying, but understandable. Despite he and I being “one unit” and all that, he wasn’t in my head.If there was an anti-street-harrassment installation with a blow up of a woman with a torn blouse, he thought “here’s this picture on display. People are seeing it. So what if I shoot it?” So he zooms in and out of her cleavage. I told him it’s art, yes, but we cannot use close-ups of blow-ups of breasts on TV. He kept asking a defiant "why?" And I failed miserably in explaining. Of course, I edited those visuals out while putting the story together. But his excited shooting at the venue didn’t help my already suspect objective of being at the festival.

I realize there has been enough nonsense on television news to worry people. It’s always either a question of morality and westernization, or a matter of fascination: an “oddity” to be curious about. But keeping aside the question of whether the mainstream media should be involved at all, (I think it should be, responsibly), lately, there have been several honest attempts by journalists to cover queer issues. There isn’t enough space on 24-hour news for a full-fledged debate yet, but questions have replaced comment, and responsibility—whether self-motivated or imposed— has definitely increased. So especially now, the reverse stereotyping is getting a little old.

The festival directors knew what I was doing there, and were fortunately, unruffled about my camera and my presence. But weeks after the four-day film festival, I’m still wondering what do about my invisible media wart.

silly mind, silly stomach

Monthly dread

Little independent globules of fat floating in body, finding each other. Fusing. Bobbing happily towards top-left corner of body.
Flashes of being rushed in horizontal position to George Cloony in green pajamas (or McDreamy in blue). Oh joy. But Red Cross nurse rams metallic shock things into chest (mine), barking panicky orders in mallu-accented Greek to note-taking minions.
White flash.
Suresh Oberoi in white-lab-coat touches my father’s shoulder. Looks down. Takes off rimless spectacles.

So do something about it

A great bright morning. Early. Aunties walk, trying to unhinge their arms from their torsos. Uncles laugh loudly in groups at parks. Girls jog in matching trackpants*, boys lift impressive weights. Ah, the fitness loving world. Beautiful, determined, guilty.
Not today.
We wear our helmets. Breathe in the clean air. Head to Nizamuddin’s little lanes. Crowded even at dawn. A hysterical beggar demands her biscuit breakfast. A muslim family runs en masse towards a shrieking car alarm. (“Damn goats!”)
In the passageway to the dargah are little holes in the wall. Against the still-clearing morning fog, tea brews, paratha sizzles, nihari simmers. Nihari of the thigh meat, and myriad secret masalas. Of the old Delhi Muslim. Nihari, of the fresh, cool morning. With naan, of course.
Oil gliding, only half-touching over the brown broth. A piece of oh-so-tender beef anchors the bunch of ginger slits in the middle of the bowl. A tall glass of sugary tea on the side.
Fat globules are welcome.

*Why do fitness clothes seem like they're only made for already fit people? Wonder if I can ever find a loose pair of trackpants. You think the fitness people know "loose"?

Also please to watch this ambience-full video of The Search for Nihari in Karachi. Courtesy YouTube.

the demise of the 50 paisa

Waking up to find that people reject you to your face. That’s got to be the worst ever morning. It’s relatively easy to hear people say you’re useless, especially if you know you’ve been sort of out of the scene for a while now. But to find that because of a few rejections, you become rejectable? Now that’s a tough life. Why even get off the assembly line then?
Even the otherwise penny-and-pound-wise rickshaw-walla rejected it. “But I’m giving you four of them… that makes TWO whole rupees,” I explained.
“But madam yeh nahi chalti”
Well, I took it from someone. It chalo-ed to me…
“Arre madam…chalta paisa dena. Koi nahi letha isko.”
But the RBI still makes it, right? Stuff is still priced with the half.
(An annoying realization hits me about how I never bother to collect the change in such situations. But as long as this unreasonable man doesn’t know it, I can have any incriminating realizations secretly in my head)

The rejecter called on the parking attendant. Ask him if he’ll take it, he goaded me. “He’s your friend ok, he’ll be as unreasonable. I’ll call a neutral someone. Aap lenge na isko?”
The vegetable vendor looked blankly at my palm. “Yeh nahi chalti madam”
What is with these people?!!

I used to buy a fistful of orange-toffee once. And a few years down, a band-aid plaster. Then it clinked around at the bottom of my bag for a while. Afterwards I didn’t bend to pick it up when it rolled into floor crevices. Then it was useful in even numbers, to be given away when you wanted to thin your wallet. And now, chalti nahi. When I said it was this or nothing else, the rickshaw-wallah actually went with ‘nothing else’. It’s a horrible way to die, I tell you, being less than your value.

first impressions

So now, Delhi. Incredibly beautiful, sprawling and breezy. But the shade of brown-green in trees here irritates me. Makes me nostalgic for the wet, healthy green of south India. The roads are wide, but honk-ful nonetheless. The house comes with two balconies from which we can feel grateful about the brown-greeness of a well-maintained Welfare Association garden. There are security guards we have to soon ask to not salute us. There are two maids who arrive everyday at 8 a.m. sharp, speaking in an outrageous blend of loud Tamil, Telugu and Hindi. There is a Khanna for water cans, a Jasmeet for garbage bags, and an eager Pandey for anything else we would have to lift a finger for. We want none of them, but they keep offering themselves. Because Dilli mein there’s a ‘ladka’ for everything.

The vegetable buying, fridge filling, dish washing has “settled” written all over it. It was all done before as independents, but now it’s done for two. Which means it invites “All domesticated, eh?” jibes from friends who’re not sure how much anything has changed, if at all. Anyway, the electric wire coils and ready-to-make mixes peeping out of corners and constantly moving furniture, betray unsettlement.

But when the smug IAS officer Mr. Arora from upstairs said, “In north India, no one will understand if you both have different surnames. I’m Mr. Arora, so she (points to beautifully graying, disapproving wife) is automatically Mrs. Arora. It works like that. You have no choice.” Mrs. Arora sipped her chai, “He doesn’t know anything. You both are wonderful children. You don’t want to change anything from before? You absolutely need not.”

We’ve taken Mrs. Arora’s advice very seriously.