Monday, December 24, 2007

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, 5th 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”.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

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