Dear Mrs. M,
I feel incredibly sorry for all those who are spending a lot of time, energy and emotions thinking about Anna Hazare and the paraphernalia that comes with it.
Anti-corruption? Right.
Let me refresh some memories.
Irom Chanu Sharmila.
How you remember her today: She was invited by Hazare to join his movement.
How she should be remembered?
The girl who fasted in the name of justice. The girl, who fasted to protest against the Malom Massacre and the girl who has been fasting for 10 years to make the Indian government revoke the AFSPA.
Swami Nigamananda Saraswati
How you remember him today: You simply don’t.
How he should be remembered?
The 34 year old who passed away after fasting for a hundred and fifteen days. For a cause that not too many people even bother to enlighten themselves about: illegal mining that is polluting the Ganga and crushing the river bed at Kumbh.
Jabbardan Gadhvi
How you remember him today: You will possibly not even bother reading about why he should be remembered.
How he should be remembered?
The man who gave up his life outside the mamlatdar’s office in Kutch. In an attempt to be heard, the RTI activist committed suicide after his application remain ignored. Yes, it was a matter of rural farmlife politics. But it was also a protest against the hierarchy that allows questions to remain unanswered.
Ten years and lives lost and people rejoiced when Hazare broke his fast roughly a week back.
Quick question:
Who are Arvind Kejriwal and Aruna Roy?
That’s right. Hurry and key it in and Google will return accurate searches.
And you shall all be wiser and your comments about the Lokpal and the like will become more intense.
(I got a call from an ex-boss an hour ago)
Mrs. M, I had started calling you fondly. No reason to it though. M features nowhere in your name.
You wanted to know why I had deviated to Luxury Retail when I “had it” to stick to civic journalism. Told me that I should write about Human Interest issues and of course comment on social and political happenings. You gave me a crisp, well-rehearsed talk about how journalism expects me to be true to myself and since I have had the courage to stand up for my rights over the years, I should reconsider my career decision and needless to say, pay heed to the greens being waved in front of me.
Mrs. M, had the greens come to me without the talk, I would have considered flying all the way back and taking possession of the seat that was being offered to me. But the talk just killed it. Mercilessly.
You know, when I had decided to become a writer, I had decided on it since it was the only way I could earn fast bucks without even putting in an effort. Gradually, when I had decided to become a journalist, I was enamoured by the power that came along with it. When I worked, I realized that at the end of the day, you are paid to watch and write what you are expected to write. Not what you want to.
No surprises here anyway. Especially not to you, Mrs. M.
Our cool, arrogance, smugness is pretty much as real as our convictions. Sadly, this breed actually believes the fact that everything can be believed in if it is made believable.
Remember Shattered Glass? Remember Hayden Christensen, the cool, the suave, the inexplicably successful? And, remember Chloë Sevigny? The not so successful one? I remember recommending it to you after watching it. You smiled and let me know some trade secrets. Of course, I can never really be a threat even if I know all… You loved my nonchalance towards matters that shook nations. Quote: “Since everyone has an opinion already, let’s just observe those”. And there were smiles all around.
Remember the Budhwar Peth incident? Fine, I was merely a volunteer at an NGO for women at that point of time. But I was also a so-called journalist. When I called you (and many other “influential” journalists), you actually refused to take the story further. An fourteen year old was lying writhing in bed, delirious with fever and the only thought on her mind was that she needed to get well, get up and get ready for her men. She fails to do it, more signs of abuse show up on her existence. How come none of you even wanted to talk about it? “It happens!” Right. Does it now? You think its alright to leave a minor to the mercies of her pimp, to know that she is getting raped repeatedly and do nothing about it!?
Closer home, how come nothing was done about Her? We all knew why she killed herself. We all had proof. If we all are epitomes of justice and its delivery, how come not a single step was taken towards it? How come I was literally forced to step back from both the stories. Sadder still, how come the Budhwar Peth story went into the shredder?
I have never been one of those people who have been much bothered about unravelling the truth. It never has been difficult for me to accept the fact that people lie. And when they lie, they are always ready to lie some more to keep the wheels turning. They are willing to sell some souls, buy some, shed some tears and instigate some to keep the façade in place. And breaking through or even trying to, is an insult. The only two times, I thought I was doing justice to my profession, I was diverted. And with such ease and tact. It was such a disappointment. And a let-down. But thank god it happened. Or else, I would be right there, in the middle of a million more faceless reporters, trying to make a point about what sells instead of letting people know what is happening.
Moreover, what is the point? A few reads, a few awards, status: celebrity achieved, and of course the power to walk through any wall. And of course, more money than you can spend. Appealing. Agreed. But not enough. For me.
There are times when I wish that I could actually leave behind ideals and convictions and air-kiss the ones who will award me with a title that sounds more impressive than “Senior Business Correspondent”.
But then again, there are far more times when I realize how the world works, heave a sigh of relief and thank god for equipping me with the ability to remain nonchalant about front page headlines.
Thank god I do not do any of the things I was asked to do by you an hour ago. Thank god, my fights for justice and rights are limited to stray pups and kittens. Thank god, I still have faith and goodwill and the ability to keep career-induced bitterness away. I am not too great at it. But I’m so much better than most you and I know.
When I moved away from what we see as “Real Journalism”, I knew exactly what I was doing. I could see noses crinkling up when I wrote my first article in a tabloid. I saw horror when the number of articles about completely mindless things became my identity. I sensed disappointment when I decided that this is where I will stay. Even you, who helped with the first tottering steps, were outraged. After all these years, I hear disappointment.
I’m sorry. I can’t chase dreams I don’t believe in. We both know, the path I am walking now is not one that is even remotely related to my dreams. It just funds them. Sure, you were offering me a smoother ride till there, but, after all these years and all the articles and the mindlessness and the luxury and the tabloids and finally the retail, I can’t suddenly dive headlong into society and what defines it. I can’t wake up and start pretending that I feel for causes I care nothing about. I am too involved with the mindlessness. More importantly, I am comfortable here. For fuck’s sake, you crept towards this path too. You mastered the art of the fake smiles and you taught me all about the beauty of “the day job”. Jobs that fund. Jobs that can never become your life. Jobs that leave you with the time to come up with stories.
I’m not walking down the path you’re tempting me to walk down Mrs. M. Sometimes, my memory fails to be dysfunctional. I remember “Jobs and titles are never important. When you do something, make sure it pays you enough and make sure that you don’t believe in it wholeheartedly. Unless you’re writing fiction”
Maybe sometime in the near or distant future, I will let go of all the illusions and run the race that is won by the fattest pays. But till then, I am blissful meeting men in crisp suits, designers who believe that the sun shines out of their ass and things I know jackshit about. The step-ups keep coming like they always have. “Its never what you write,” Mrs. M. “Its how you write it.”
End of rant?
For the time being, possibly. You realize my point. You realize why this is on the blog instead of your inbox and you realize that a post like this will not have a next time. And you realize that I shall slip into the shell which firmly makes people believe that I have no awareness of anything. Apart from literature and comic books that is. Its an easier world to live in. A happier one. A less pretentious one. Most importantly, it is mine.Being aware is alright there. Getting worked up about situations that can’t be altered, is not. I would suggest you forget Hazare and the Lokpal. I suggest you read some Murakami and Palahniuk. You will realize the futility of our argument.
Love.
