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.

keep the change

It’s a fine line between a gift and a bribe. And a lot of people think no one sees that line anymore. When this man slipped a Rs.100 note to the driver “for tea”, and shone a servile grin at me, I wondered if it didn’t matter to him that the entire street was watching. All eyes hoping that his possibly representative offering will bring a Corporation official to dry their waterlogged homes. Maybe the press could pressurize the real authorities to act. Let’s flatter their ego, whoever they are, if they show a little worry about our stinky streets and open manholes.

The man actually managed a hurt look when we slapped his hand away. Immediately, he appealed to my cameraman. As if saying “You’re a man, you know the ways of the world. Let’s let little honest girls be righteous… come on, let us men be realistic.” And the street was still watching. Some soft confident grunts even insisted we stop making a fuss. Once threatened that he was risking us covering his locality at all, he put the dirty money away reluctantly. Not only was he still not convinced we were for real, he clearly thought we were idiots and wouldn’t survive in this bad bad world.

But I do think I won’t survive in this bad bad world too long. If you’re not screeching down the road, the traffic won’t part for you. If you’re not a foul-mouthed feudal lord, many who work under you do not respect you. If you’re not a hard-ass bribe-taking (and giving) reporter, you don’t get the scoop. Forget the scoop, you don’t even get what every reporter in the world and his never-leave-the-office editor has got. The realization makes me feel old. And pitifully young. At the same time.

Another day, a man in the court slipped a 500 to a tamil newspaper journalist. In a few minutes, he was powdering his precious nose for many camera interviews. “Should I look at camera or to my left? Is this white shirt a problem? Yes, yes, I’ll wear my robe” He’d done it all before, and parroted what some would consider quotable quotes. Nothing clever, nothing funny. Just TV-lingo that TAM and other organizations making money out of scientific ice-vecchufying (flattering) would pin-point as the words “Indian households tuned into”. Sure, how their hair must’ve stood on end when the powdered nose quivered in passion to “Justice must be done!” But his 500 mars his credibility.

Maybe they've learnt a hard lesson from the sharks of the journalism trade. Maybe they want to make sure they’ve done all they can. Leave no stones unturned, is what they say, I think. But the lady can demand to know when her story will come on air when I’ve just walked into her home and stuck a camera in her face. The uncompensated can expect reaction, even if temporary, from the authorities if they see the story. The ones fighting for their homes have every right to demand an answer from an often TRP-enslaved me when the twist of a cricketer’s knee elbows out their unfair eviction. But they cannot demand a space in the viewers' minds by handing me a note. Many journalists will continue to make the aggrieved believe in their supreme, far-reaching individual power. But if they’ve done so for a few sodden rupees, their power is not that supreme, is it?

Why is there widespread trust in underhandedness? Money makes the world go around, someone I didn’t much pay attention to, used to say. But if it’s your money, can it please just pass me by? I’d like to keep my conscience. They say it’s getting rare.

BlogCamp!

I went, buzzed around, and because I was covering it, didn't get to listen to anything except for one little limerick by Aparna Ray. Were there really just 200 people at the BlogCamp? That was supposed to be the upper limit of the number of participants, because as Kiruba says, "After that, it's either too chaotic, or we'll have to induce structure to make things more orderly." And at this event, asking for order and structure is blasphemous.

What excited me was that in a BlogCamp, if you're in the audience, and can't believe how boring the speaker is, you can actually stand up and show him how wide you can yawn. Fun, but that's a long way off. The rules have been broken for you, but it takes a while to relish that freedom. While some people sat with legs crossed on the table, some others hissed "How rude!" on the side. Teachers in school have trained almost irreversibly to only speak when we're spoken to. You wanna say something? You raise your hand, buster.

But the unconference did show signs of weaning its participants away from the usual conference etiquette. I caught at least half the people bringing their lunch plate to the table; those who didn't have probably had bad (and common) experiences of sambar splashes on their keyboard (No, drumstick sambar was last week. This week T,H, and N have slurped onion sambar).

There were bloggers who talked about pet fish and pandas, fashion (unrelated to the pandas), rural connectivity, disaster management, sleeping on the job while your blog earns for you, body shopping, blog journalism, podcasting, firewall skirting, how to avenge those that steal your content, how to increase your hitcount (I need to learn a thing or two), how to be likeable.

But today, a certain sense of wooziness was perceptible as soon as I entered the room. When I asked if it was post-lunch ennui, someone corrected me. “Post Beach House party booziness!”

I wish I’d hung around a little longer, but as soon as too many people started noticing my CNN IBN mike logo and saying "Why don't you attend my talk on a very pathbreaking concept," I decided it was time to leave. After all, they know that a little appearance in the media can do much for your blog. At the same time, I did know of some interesting bloggers like Amit Agarwal only through TV. It’s not surprising that blog-branding and promotion was one of the talks. But I was primarily looking out for blogs with a cause, and found Osama Manzar. He doesn’t blog himself, but came from Delhi to ask bloggers to be responsible in their writing—in that they don’t just detail their breakfast menu, but write of what they see in their travels. “Not take Coca Cola to the villages, but bring the sherbet to the city,” he said. His Digital Empowerment Foundation searches for solutions to bridge the digital divide. They’re the guys that awarded the now quiet and bitter youth, Raghav Mahto, for his enterprise in running his own radio station from rural Bihar.

I expected less tolerance for clichés in such an environment, but politeness and a will to be democratic let some sessions unclocked. Of course, it’s also probably just my patience that needs work. But being at the BlogCamp (even for a few hours) was great— you can almost hear the whirring of minds. And it’s a place where you meet so many you’ve only just read before. Even for those who spend more time in the virtual world than in the real one, shaking the hand of your favourite URL can put you in a great mood.

Keep out because we've said so for ages

Saamis will soon be all over town, throwing away their cigarettes and slippers, sleeping in the living room, and turning on their goodness for 41 days.

"Swamiyeeeii! Sharanam Ayyapppa!" is a chant I've heard and enjoyed every year, as my father would wear his rudraksh necklace, and suddenly turn so pious that I felt respect and fear soar inside me. I liked that he suddenly sported a beard too; it made him handsome. His friends planned the trip for a whole month: cars to be booked ("We're getting older, the Tempo will give us slipdisc. Get a Scorpio"), leave to be applied for, and celibacy to be attained. It was a man's holiday from the household, but these men were truly believers. They loved their Ayyappa and didn't fail to bring home the cherished Aravana payasam (prasad) that we licked for weeks after. I'm glad I got to go once when I was nine, and while trekking up the hill, some uncle even took the bundle of divinity from my head and threw it on his. "Little girls needn't bother."

Looks like not-so-little girls needn't bother either.

"Jayamala shouldn't have entered the temple."

Why?

"Because she's a woman, and women are not allowed inside the Sabarimala Temple."

Why?

"Because Ayyappa is a bachelor and he doesn't like women entering his temple."

Did he tell you personally? Did he have a nice booming godly voice?

Jayamala didn't just touch Ayyappa's feet; she hurt male pride. How dare she enter what God said was man's space? To add to that, an unnecessary court directive a few years ago asks the temple authorities to enforce the ban on women strictly. Now that Jayamala said she entered the temple 19 years ago, suddenly so many men are afraid that the fellow they've been worshipping all this while is a dirty fellow. Touched by a woman. Did it mean that all that work they put into leading a pure life was a waste? "Ermm... so can I smoke again? God ain't that pious anyway."

Rahul Easwar, grandson of the chief priest of the Sabarimala temple, is "a believer in tradition, but a feminist." That's how he describes himself. He's a VJ, wears stylish unwashed jeans, and could give Dhoni a run for his hair. He also chants Sanskrit slokas, seems to be a yoga expert of some sort, and said on a news show that he's is a believer in Sati. Whether he's that much of a believer in tradition, or he just said it to seem consistent on TV, we will never know. But it is this kind of Saami that worries me. The one who seems modern in every way, except that he's not too progressive. The fellows who have no qualms about clinking vodka glasses with their girlfriends, but would "be practical" in getting her parents to cough up dowry (To soften them up for the intercaste marriage). The kind of guy who "allows" his wife to work.

My dad and his middle-aged friends going to Sabarimala wouldn't care if their wives hopped along. Their sons who go along aren't really sure about this, though. They're still walking the trapeze between being a modern chappie who condemns the purdah system, and an Indian boy who must not question his tradition and culture.

an urge to spit fire

Having a hate and love is not just difficult, it's supposed to be wrong. Look at the greys, they tell you, use your mind. Yes, the mind does tell me that I can't do anything about 99 people refusing to simply say the truth about what they saw. But it makes me nervous about justice, about what'll happen if my sister is shot in the head for refusing someone a drink. Ok, not "nervous". I'll say it. I'm shifty-eyed, breathless, cold, restless, scratching-thin-white-paper-with-a-sharp-pen petrified. My mind has been seeing flashes of thousands of faceless people standing thirsty, crying, bawling, their eyes bloodred screaming where do I go now, who will make me feel better, why did I ever hope, I should've killed him when I could.
And when a father says he wants his son killed because he can't afford to do blood transfusions for him anymore, I want to slow the world down and make it see. He's calling out for help, don't you see? He'd gone everywhere for help. Where were all you NGOs, MNCs, kind-eyed tearfaced doctors till now, till the media came and threw his misery in your face with slow, sad music and interviews of the boy himself saying "yes, I'm sad to die" (did they ask him how he felt about dying?!). Dr. Rajkumar, who "adopted" the boy, hid him and the father in his Lifeline hospital, bringing him out only to tonsure his head sympathetically on Jaya TV. And channels shout at their reporters for saying clearly in their story that the doctor only wanted to hit headlines, and that he didn't even know what the boy had. Oooh, how can you defile the benefactor?
Of course, I'm relieved the boy gets help, even if it's from a media hungry doc who thinks nothing of performing some 50 hernia surgeries on poor people in 13 or so hours. Someone in my head is telling me to just shut up and let the boy get something. But if goodness is all that matters, why're are the other benefactors so enraged that the doc got there first?

I'm tired. I don't even know who I'm angry with anymore.

Hello, hello, mike testing...

It's fascinating the things a microphone can do, once held in front of a potential speaker.
Voices rage, chests thrust out, and fists pump the air. Worries usually coughed into a coal-stove spill forth in a rush as soon as the husband leaves the room. "No, he won't know when the programme airs on TV. Listen, I'll tell before he comes back for lunch."
Babies, of course, without exception, land their toothless mouths on the mike, and claw at it with their little fingers.

White khadi shirts comb their sparse hair all to one side in an attempt to hide the bald patch, straighten their collars and backs, and clear their throat. They know what they are going to say, and have said it many times before. People have yawned in their faces, and their run-of-the-mill lines have never been used in TV stories, but they're on auto-motor-mouth. But try to ignore the guy, and he'll fetch the whole community to scream in sync about how the media is biased. "You upper class convent educated media only want to show the flooded houses of the rich guys. You don’t even care if a poor man's corpse floats by you. Let's see you trying to come back to this area! I'll break your legs!"
That it is dramatic and baseless is beside the point. But how to get out the situation? Stick the mike in his face. Scream, if you will, into the mike, I say. He won't say much, but will be happy, and his party cadres will commend his intonation as he says, "Chief Minister must resign!" And we can continue to wade towards those marooned in their huts.

We're always asked if we're from Sun TV. Or Jaya TV. Some ask if we are Karunandhi. Or Jayalalitha. When we tell them it's an English news channel, the crowd disperses. Some inform the disinterested that "nowadays you can talk in Tamil for English channels also."
Some women, usually the first ones to speak, shuffle towards me. Many that talk to the mike know what the media likes. They've seen too many cameras, answered the same questions a trillion times, and seen nothing happen despite all that. They've also seen people's heart going out to the woman beating her chest in Nagapattinam. They saw the channel proudly showing off the impact of that footage. They know she received Rs. 6 lakh.
These women start from the beginning, tell me where the government machinery failed, where they themselves were at fault, what they need, and how sure they are not much help will come their way. The greater the pain, the more difficult it is to speak. Especially to someone holding a mike. Sometimes a tear or two wets the cheek. As if only someone's tears can tell us how unpredictably cruel life can be. I never know what to say, so just look on.

But, that day, when she cried that her daughter was washed away in the flood, the others behind her were smiling. They wanted her to talk to me, and cry, if she wanted, but they knew, just as well as I did, that she was lying. She had no daughter. I knew I wasn’t going to show this on TV, but none of us were angry about her lie. She'd been through agony, even if it wasn't because her baby died. Her only house broke, all her belongings were too soggy to be of any use ever and she was stuck with the loans she took to buy them, her husband couldn't go fishing, and she had no fish to sell. They had no water to drink, or food to eat for a month. Only cameras to talk to once in a while. Her daughter didn't have to die for her to cry. She thinks maybe more people are listening because she's crying.
Of course, everyone can see the drama in it all. Dripping with a stage-set sort of feeling. I will not carry her tears on TV just so people can ignore her other real agonies.

My only hope was the children. I remember being told they can never lie. When I ask a 7-year-old what happened to his sister who was born a few months ago, he looks me straight in the eye and says his father boiled her in the cauldron. But to the mike, he says she's growing up in grandma's house in the city.

I look for someone else who'll talk to the mike. Maybe they too will embellish the truth, or paint it in peaceful colours.

The eyes. We've just got to look at the eyes to know.

airwaves crackle

CNN-IBN on air all over the country from December 16! On the web, so much fun too.
Still lots of glitches and nervousness, tickers that leave you to fill in the blanks, anchors who call me Mohini (yuckyuckyuck). No other woman in an office of 20, no respite even on crampy PMS days until I just list out (in shocking decibel levels) the perils of venturing within 10 feet of me and leave the room in all drama.
But there are anchors I don't know who wish me on air to "stay warm and dry" as I report on the endless cyclones, bosses that are thrilled to bits when we ignore some idiot DMK politician for telling the story of a whole street that's quietly flying black flags after 42 of their neighbours who died in a stampede at a flood relief camp. Then they ask someone in Orissa if they knew Tamil Nadu is not as parched, and still dying the same inhuman death.
I notice that it's taken over my dinner/breakfast for the past 3 months. That it makes me prioritise Office-Delhi calls over Mummy-Bangalore calls. I miss the complete control that newspaper articles gave me, and realise everyday how much I have to depend helplessly on every cog in the wheel (cameraperson, editor, driver, automan, watchman, landlord, carpenter). When the wheel falters, I'd like to jump into the sea, but when it zips smoothly right over all bumps and potholes, I absolutely love the ride.
I whine at being woken up from sleep at 3 in the morning by an assignment coordinator in Delhi, but then shut up after I know he wants me to get early responses from Chennai on what people think about Meerut police beating up couples in a park. They recognise blogs as strong valid voices and put them up on their own news website. They're so earnest, most of them. And so young.
I'm most excited, but am trying to be straight-faced reporter whose stomach and liver don't merge into one at the thought of suddenly being on TV 24 hours, and having to say sensible truths all the time. Brr.

spies came out of the water

I wonder if we've become a police state. And the police isn't always just the guys in khakhi… it's the nosy lady on the ground floor apartment; the maybe too-powerful theatrical media; hungry Uriah Heep lawyers; political parties making up 'ideology' over biryani; patchily scripted film personalities; the man speeding the screaming dirty Qualis he thinks is his dick/manhood.
Everyone wants to gun everyone else down. Actually, I understand that: the tendency to push people around. Especially when it's easy.
What I don't understand is how we let them. And live like fugitives, full of fear. And tell ourselves we're quiet because we want to be amused.

(Although The Hindu has written a first page Magazine article about the Kushboo issue in as stern a voice as the grand old paper can muster, it's forgotten to mention the real slap on the chastity protectors' face. The Madras High Court's observation last week: "The court is pained at the way these two women have been treated. They have the freedom to speak their mind. These protests... is this your culture?" And then asked the big-mustached police to work a little bit and please prevent such illegal protests if they happened again.)

woah

It amazes me, this sudden unanimity of opinion.
Everyone is saying yuck to roses and candy. Everyone is suddenly talking about Bajrang Dal. Everyone is a sharp customer whom knows the stuffed toy companies are out to swindle. Everyone hates mush. Everyone wants to hate V day.

So much unity in thought.
Everyone is painstakingly making sure Monday is deathly drab. Petrified that if they went to watch a play or a movie, they would be spotted and accused of having "celebrated Valentines". That they must make sure they’re heard saying "the day is even for one’s mother".

So much harmony in action.
Everyone’s making sure they don’t end up wearing red or associated shades on that day. That they're not caught walking alongside a guy or girl on the footpath. That if they went shopping, even alone, they’d become Madhuri Dixit buying pink things for herself in Dil to pagal hai. That they don’t decide to buy a letter pad that day. That they must not kiss who they want to so it doesn’t seem like an occasion.

My dad said he’s going to kann adichify and whistle vuttufy (wink at seedily, and whistle luridly) at my mom the whole day. The bus stop road romeo has similar plans, I suspect (except, he has a larger audience that excludes my mom, I hope).
Phew. Happy Valentines Day to the unafraid. May you stay far far away from the I’m-trying-very-hard-not-to-like-V-Day sheep.

Guilt fangs

The rock band had to be photographed. They held their guitars and grimaced in mock passion, the music supposedly too high-pitched and satanic to be humanly audible. This is ridiculous, I said. You’re not actually playing, and you’re standing next to some stunted shrubs and faking musical ecstasy for the photograph. ANYBODY can see that you are not plugged in! But yes, you... mr.drummer, you’re quite the man. Holding up the sticks, your face registering eye-popping, jaw-dropping shock that your drum kit suddenly vanished into thin air, and looking thrilled that now you have only your god-given instrument to play with, is totally rib-tickling. Ha ha. I could laugh till all my teeth fall out.
"Oh alright," band leader said, bizarrely under the impression that I was being sarcastic. "We’ll move elsewhere."
So scene 2: near next bunch of shrubs. The photographer asks them to seem friendly, and pretend to be normal. It has to be explained that accosting the keyboardist is not normal, and that a college rock band doesn't need to look like they have rocks in their heads.
As voice levels go up, the watchman (let’s call him W) walks up to us (I cringe to say "us") and points to a signboard on the grass. In tamil, he says, "Can’t you read the board? It’s written that you can’t take photo! Hut! Hut! Shoo, go away…"
We all look the board: "No smoking. Please don’t sit on grass." The idiot band members laugh that W is pretending to be literate.
I tell W that we’re from the press, but he doesn’t care. "You can ask permission from manager," he says and starts walking towards a door. I ask the photographer and the screw-loose bunch to hold on till I go do some begging in the manager’s office.
The manager doesn’t let me say a word, but shows me every surveillance camera that’s installed in the building. "Boss has told us not to let photos be taken. If you still do it, this man will lose his job," the manager says, pointing to W. Maybe he’s exaggerating, I think. But what if he isn’t?
I go back to the scene of crime. I report my findings and suggest that we take snaps in a place where we won’t end up getting somebody fired. The band vocalist grinningly says, "Too late. W has already lost his job, then."
Huh?
"We took the photos when you took W inside," the drummer says, proud about his new-found defiant streak. High-fives are all over the place. W doesn’t understand what’s happening. As we all leave, he tells me, "Thanks ma, you understand no?"
I look at the drummer and vocalist now lifting their collars and doing the school-boy "yesss!!". I wonder where I can find a loaded gun.

Push & pull

Every time I’m asked to write about celebrity suicides, one-day makeovers,
talent hunts that will further breed more TV soap kings and queens who go to sleep dressed in wedding clothes & makeup,
campus lingo (I challenge the world to write 800 sensible words on the cultural milieu that spawned "wassup?!"),
a party that must be talk-of-town because a model did an unfortunate Janet Jackson,
what people wear this monsoon (oh who CARES!! just remember to take the jerkin/ raincoat/ umbrella) or other such events that must be chronicled for our grandchildren, I make an explosive mental speech about trashy articles in papers. But bravado takes new meanings as I very articulately stick my lower lip out at my boss, and say the words that reflect the makings of a great revolutionary: "But… but whyyyyy?"
I cannot tell a lie- the pink slip stalks me even in my sleep (well-dressed women walk up to me in busy dream streets and hand me pink files)! So I decide to be a con-artist. Tongue firmly in cheek, I sprinkle synthetic saccharine on every word I write, squeeze every bit of sarcasm into the article and pride myself on not having sold my soul. Then the fashion designer I poked fun at calls me up to say: "Thanks a lot, my girl. We need more write-ups like the one you did. We should lunch sometime…" Oh no! How did I get on HIS side?!! (And how do these people manage to make meals into verbs? "We must tea after we lunch" Ha! English pundits will cringe. I merely grin)
Food too, I hear, has gotten fashionable. As I sit at a 5-star dinner table pretending to be interested in how the miniscule one-spoonful portion of chocolate mousse must be plonked in the centre of a laaarge plate, with a "whiff of" this and a "sprinkling of" that, my fork is ready to take off. (Food Inspector’s orders: Spoons to be prohibited in restaurants where la-di-da is served in greater proportions than yummm…). All the while, my tummy holds a rumbling monologue...
Yet I keep my job. Well, there are perks. Like the occasional interview with madcaps whose endearingly irrational & less talked of lives make more sense than the many gold-plated (or platinum-plated, as trends would have us believe) worlds of the poised. Ok maybe I do love my job...