In August last year, I left a message on Murtaza Razvi’s Facebook wall, congratulating him on his super courageous article titled What a state to be in. ‘I hope you are safe,’ I added.
His reply was pithy and shorn of emotions: ‘Safe as can be.’
Two weeks ago, I read Where to with anti-Americanism and responded with a comment: ‘Courageous piece. I expect nothing less from you, Murtaza.’
As is evident, the leitmotif of my recent interactions with Murtaza was a single word: courage. Till the very end, he continued to write pieces that required exemplary courage, honesty and introspection. If the thought of personal safety crossed his mind, he didn’t allow his work to reflect that.
Today, as I sit here in shock and denial, I cannot help thinking of our first meeting. It was the morning of our first day at the Asia Journalism Fellowship in Singapore. Dressed in formals, I was waiting along with a few other Fellows for the bus to take us to the University when Murtaza – wearing cargo shorts, a collared T-shirt and glitzy sunglasses – walked up to me. He grinned and said:
‘You must be the other Fellow from India. I was looking for you.’ I shook his hand. ‘Sutta peethe ho?’(Do you smoke?) I nodded. ‘Tho chalo, chaoon mein khade hoke shauk farmathe hain.’ (Then let’s enjoy a cigarette in the shade.)
Just like that, he had used his easy charm to win me over. Over the next three months, I saw him employ this trick many times. It took but a few moments for him to connect with the human being across from him. Having done that, he would use his razor-sharp intellect and ready wit to seal the deal. Yet another friend was made, yet another barrier breached.
I suppose it was natural for us to strike a deep friendship – despite external appearances, we had so much in common. We had both spent longish spells in the US. More importantly, both of us were fond of Bollywood, Hindi music from the 60s and 70s, ghazals, smooth whiskeys, filter “ciggys,” and sub-continental history. I discovered that he could talk knowledgeably for hours on any of these topics. On one occasion, he stoked my jealousy by stating that he had managed to meet Gulzar in flesh and blood!
‘So many of your idioms come from West Punjab,’ he had told Gulzar sahb on that pleasant afternoon many years ago.
‘Where else would they come from?’ the great poet had replied.
We sat in the reflected glow of this nostalgic conversation, wondering aloud how conjoined India and Pakistan really are. We kept returning to this theme of commonality, whether we spoke about minority rights, gender issues, terrorism, bureaucracy, the Indus Valley Civilization, the rich-poor divide or geopolitics. Since both of us were veritable owls, we worked together till late into the night, often breaking into abrupt conversation to banish monotony. For instance, looking up from the manuscript he was writing on Musharraf at that time, he once asked me, his voice dripping with adulation:
‘Isn’t Waheeda Rehman one of the most beautiful women ever?!’
Another event of note happened during our stay in Singapore. Although he was already a renowned journalist with proven credentials, he could not get an Indian visa on time to attend a family wedding. He appeared to take the setback in his stride, declaring:
‘There are jokers on both sides of the border. Can’t be helped.’
I’ll always miss this, his willingness to look beyond the current situation with objectivity and humour. But what I’ll miss even more is his genuine warmth. Few know that Murtaza was not only a superb host but also a great cook. He seemed to revel in the opportunity to feed people. At least a dozen times in those three months, he told me:
‘Aren’t you fed up of that Food Court stuff? Come over. I’ll cook the evening’s meal.’
This was in addition to the festive pan-Asian potluck dinners we Fellows regularly enjoyed, in which the star dish would usually be the one cooked by Murtaza.
In Murtaza’s presence, I always felt as if I was at a crossroads he was familiar with. With him, I could always share the anxieties and joys of being a father to my daughter Risha. He, in turn, would talk with rare pride about his wife and their three angels – if memory serves me right, they are named Maya, Priya and Dina.
The last time I heard his voice was when he called from New Delhi.
‘Can’t you catch a flight to here?’ he asked. ‘My visa is not valid for Bangalore.’
I regrettably told him that I had committed my time elsewhere. I don’t remember now what those other commitments were, but I’ll forever regret not taking up his offer. I wish I had caught that flight to New Delhi. I wish I could have spent one more memorable evening with my dear friend from across the border.
All I can do now is to send out a silent prayer to him and his family. And hope to convey to him that he will be missed more than he can imagine.
Showing posts with label journalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label journalism. Show all posts
Friday, April 20, 2012
Friday, June 3, 2011
Najam Sethi and the Indian electronic media
I introspected, wrote with feeling, recalibrated my words, soaked them in linseed oil and finally decided to let them go. Here's my latest article in Dawn Online. It's about the Indian electronic media and a Pakistani phenomenon called Najam Sethi.
Belligerence with a mission
This piece was written before Saleem Shahzad was brutally tortured and murdered by the Dark Side that thrives inside Pakistan. It's awe-inspiring that Pakistani journalists keep writing bravely, despite such terrible consequences. I saluted Sethi in this article, but in reality, that salute goes out to every Pakistani journalist of his ilk.
Belligerence with a mission
This piece was written before Saleem Shahzad was brutally tortured and murdered by the Dark Side that thrives inside Pakistan. It's awe-inspiring that Pakistani journalists keep writing bravely, despite such terrible consequences. I saluted Sethi in this article, but in reality, that salute goes out to every Pakistani journalist of his ilk.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The murky compulsions of Indian media
I have a theory. A rather speculative one. Haven't been able to shake it off, so here goes.
Imagine yourself as a 20-something journalist in New Delhi in the early 90s. Life's a constant adrenalin rush. There's a story breaking every day (the 90s belong to a slower era). You're positioned inches away from the epicentre of it all. And slowly, but surely, news goes electronic. Not many of your colleagues have the face or the confidence to be in front of a camera. You have both, so it's time to shine.
Once you've got the basics right, it's time to formulate a lasting ideology. How do you read the landscape? Well, the Babri Masjid has come down, so you certainly know which party you do NOT like. So that's the BJP out of the way. Your journalistic instincts are sufficiently honed to warn you about the Janata Dal - it's a ragtag aggregation of questionable characters, never meant to last. As for the regional parties, well, you find yourself pondering over the promises offered by Mamta Banerjee, Karunanidhi, Jayaalalithaa, Laloo Yadav, Mulayam Singh Yadav, Bal Thackarey, Deve Gowda, Sharad Pawar, Prafulla Kumar Mahanta, Shibu Soren et al (some of these currently belong to the JD). This is a pantheon that inspires despair.
That leaves the Left - whom you're willing to romance from the sidelines, thanks to your Left-leaning alma mater - and the Congress. Yes, the Congress. Finally, here's a party that has survived and will continue to survive. Besides, the dynamic duo of Narasimha Rao and Manmohan Singh are ushering in sweeping reforms. The tide is changing. Businesses are ready with a palette of bright colours. India is getting a makeover. All's well.
In a manner of speaking. Because, frankly, if the debate is reduced to "Secularism versus Capitalism," then there must be only one clear winner. As a journalist, you decide that you must try and understand the rhetoric and pragmatism offered by this "sole national, secular party." In order to believe in this phrase, you blank out the pogram conducted against the Sikhs following the assassination of Indira Gandhi. You were too young then and that Sikhening thing happened ages ago. No point holding on to old grudges. You'll still fire salvos at the Congress - after all you're young and idealistic - but you see it as a mild favourite.
So you go easy on Bofors and play up the Srikrishna Commission report. No harm done. You have the best interests of the nation in mind.
And so it begins. A tilt. A wee bit of tilt. Is there a quid pro quo involved? Not at all. Just a thumping tricolour inside your chest, goading you to do the right thing.
If you've been a journalist for even one day - if you have ever filed a single story - you will know what it takes to bury your own emotions and file a factual report of events. Quite often, it's like arbitrating against your firstborn, in favour of the neighbour's scamp. You must confront yourself, steel your mind, and speak the truth. Well, let's not go as far as the truth. You must at least tell the world what seems to have happened. But these are testing times. The world and India are changing. The country deserves better than the truth. So you must make up your own mind (and the news) as you go along. You are, after all, the barometer of the 90s and the new millennia. Let's keep this in mind and continue our theory.
Midway into the 90s, the worst case scenario comes true. The Congress is vanquished in the polls. The JD assumes power. Over the next three years, 4 JD Prime Ministers attempt to hold the steering wheel. Needless to say, each of them give India a bumpy ride and crash into the shoulder.
Then you see the REAL worst case scenario unfolding. The BJP comes to power. The corridors of South Block lose their allure. But you're a seasoned journalist by now and you will do what it takes to sniff out news and offer it to your growing audience. Mercifully, a war comes to your rescue. The sight of a uniform gives you orgiastic pleasure, so you have a field day covering the perils and romance of a conflict. For the first time ever, your countrymen get a feel of the trenches. Thanks to you. You're now an overnight sensation. Everything you've done before pales in comparison. You realise that you've redefined the news capsule merely by highlighting the drama behind dramatic moments. You've stumbled upon the magic formula. People don't want staid news. They want an exciting commentary on current affairs. A choreographed chronicle that offers a peep behind iron curtains. Generations of newspeople will be inspired by your model. In fact, those generations are already crawling out of the woodwork. The media is growing like never before. Money is pouring in. Choices are being offered to viewers and readers.
You spend the next few years consolidating, understanding unfamiliar market forces. In between, the BJP government at the centre keeps you entertained with scams and comedy. And when Ahmedabad happens, you feel justifiably disgusted. Ahmedabad was intolerable, just as New Delhi in 1984 was. Yet, you now throw your weight firmly behind the Congress.
You're also experiencing changes in your personal life. You can now afford a couple of penthouses in prestigious Delhi pincodes. You travel business class (if not in the Prime Minister's entourage). You've made it. Moneyed pleasures are cloying. You feel a vague urge to unearth newer dimensions to success.
In this backdrop, the national elections deliver the best possible verdict. The BJP is defeated and the Congress comes back to power. It's time for over-the-top celebrations. Fellow journalists, select businesses and sundry actors of the capital are popping open the champagne. You feel compelled to join in the revelry, never mind that the nation will interpret your beaming face. What's not to celebrate? Finally, here's a party worth worshipping. It's headed by a queen who refuses the crown, has been galvanised by a prince with an alleged Midas touch and the new government will now be headed by the most trustworthy Indian (only the final part of this statement is true, you know that, but what the hell!).
From now on, you can enjoy unlimited insider scoops. You yourself are an insider. You haven't noticed it, but over the years, the anti-fascist content of your reports have decidedly become pro-Congress. Your slide in position has been glacial - an imperciptible movement in slow-motion - but those who now matter have noticed it. You no longer allow people with opposing opinions to have their say in your shows. You will be rewarded. With high civilian honours, plenty of political gossip and incessant opportunities to interview the Who's Who. Your channel will certainly air its share of Exclusive News. Again, thanks to you. By now, your idealism doesn't recognise you (it languishes in fusty memorabilia in your closet where, without your knowledge, skeletons have crept in).
What you've also conveniently forgotten is that two disparate demons were challenging India in the 90s. The fascism of the religious right was just one of them. The other, equally lethal demon, was the market fundamentalism of the financial right. That's right. Ultra-capitalism. The theory that markets will self-regulate and the government must exercise no control whatsoever over businesses. Do you know why you blocked out this development? The fact that your own financial success depended on it. Your media house relies on these businesses to thrive. Over the years, you've been part of your media house's think-tank and you've accepted that some targets are never meant to be shot at. Sure, you can aim at and bring down any political lightweight at any time. That's always fun. You can't be touched while doing so. But the businesses - they're now sacred. They must not be touched because, well, the tricolour is still thumping inside your chest. Good things are being done to India by these businesses. If they need to cut corners in the process, then you must understand. You now have the maturity to understand.
That's why, when the Congress won itself another election and alliance partners proved to be a pain in the proverbial butt, you decided that there was no harm in playing the middle fiddle. For one, you were helping the "sole national, secular party" meet a crucial objective. For another, you were helping businesses take India to the next level.
How you wish you knew your conversations were being recorded! You wouldn't have sounded like confiding a crush to a high-school friend. You'd have invented a code worthy of an espionage thriller, so that the middle fiddle sounded like the middle ground. Yes, the middle ground. The spot you were obliged to occupy as a journalist.
Journalism is a difficult profession. Of all the professional roles I've played in my life, being a journalist has been the most difficult. And the only way to hold on to your sanity - and pursue the, shall we say, truth - is to operate on the premise that every belief you hold MIGHT be wrong. The news is never about you, your convictions, your take on life. It's about facts. If you have the heart of a humanitarian and the mind of a robot, there's an outside chance that you will be a good journalist. Unfortunately, few in the Indian media currently fit the bill.
Imagine yourself as a 20-something journalist in New Delhi in the early 90s. Life's a constant adrenalin rush. There's a story breaking every day (the 90s belong to a slower era). You're positioned inches away from the epicentre of it all. And slowly, but surely, news goes electronic. Not many of your colleagues have the face or the confidence to be in front of a camera. You have both, so it's time to shine.
Once you've got the basics right, it's time to formulate a lasting ideology. How do you read the landscape? Well, the Babri Masjid has come down, so you certainly know which party you do NOT like. So that's the BJP out of the way. Your journalistic instincts are sufficiently honed to warn you about the Janata Dal - it's a ragtag aggregation of questionable characters, never meant to last. As for the regional parties, well, you find yourself pondering over the promises offered by Mamta Banerjee, Karunanidhi, Jayaalalithaa, Laloo Yadav, Mulayam Singh Yadav, Bal Thackarey, Deve Gowda, Sharad Pawar, Prafulla Kumar Mahanta, Shibu Soren et al (some of these currently belong to the JD). This is a pantheon that inspires despair.
That leaves the Left - whom you're willing to romance from the sidelines, thanks to your Left-leaning alma mater - and the Congress. Yes, the Congress. Finally, here's a party that has survived and will continue to survive. Besides, the dynamic duo of Narasimha Rao and Manmohan Singh are ushering in sweeping reforms. The tide is changing. Businesses are ready with a palette of bright colours. India is getting a makeover. All's well.
In a manner of speaking. Because, frankly, if the debate is reduced to "Secularism versus Capitalism," then there must be only one clear winner. As a journalist, you decide that you must try and understand the rhetoric and pragmatism offered by this "sole national, secular party." In order to believe in this phrase, you blank out the pogram conducted against the Sikhs following the assassination of Indira Gandhi. You were too young then and that Sikhening thing happened ages ago. No point holding on to old grudges. You'll still fire salvos at the Congress - after all you're young and idealistic - but you see it as a mild favourite.
So you go easy on Bofors and play up the Srikrishna Commission report. No harm done. You have the best interests of the nation in mind.
And so it begins. A tilt. A wee bit of tilt. Is there a quid pro quo involved? Not at all. Just a thumping tricolour inside your chest, goading you to do the right thing.
If you've been a journalist for even one day - if you have ever filed a single story - you will know what it takes to bury your own emotions and file a factual report of events. Quite often, it's like arbitrating against your firstborn, in favour of the neighbour's scamp. You must confront yourself, steel your mind, and speak the truth. Well, let's not go as far as the truth. You must at least tell the world what seems to have happened. But these are testing times. The world and India are changing. The country deserves better than the truth. So you must make up your own mind (and the news) as you go along. You are, after all, the barometer of the 90s and the new millennia. Let's keep this in mind and continue our theory.
Midway into the 90s, the worst case scenario comes true. The Congress is vanquished in the polls. The JD assumes power. Over the next three years, 4 JD Prime Ministers attempt to hold the steering wheel. Needless to say, each of them give India a bumpy ride and crash into the shoulder.
Then you see the REAL worst case scenario unfolding. The BJP comes to power. The corridors of South Block lose their allure. But you're a seasoned journalist by now and you will do what it takes to sniff out news and offer it to your growing audience. Mercifully, a war comes to your rescue. The sight of a uniform gives you orgiastic pleasure, so you have a field day covering the perils and romance of a conflict. For the first time ever, your countrymen get a feel of the trenches. Thanks to you. You're now an overnight sensation. Everything you've done before pales in comparison. You realise that you've redefined the news capsule merely by highlighting the drama behind dramatic moments. You've stumbled upon the magic formula. People don't want staid news. They want an exciting commentary on current affairs. A choreographed chronicle that offers a peep behind iron curtains. Generations of newspeople will be inspired by your model. In fact, those generations are already crawling out of the woodwork. The media is growing like never before. Money is pouring in. Choices are being offered to viewers and readers.
You spend the next few years consolidating, understanding unfamiliar market forces. In between, the BJP government at the centre keeps you entertained with scams and comedy. And when Ahmedabad happens, you feel justifiably disgusted. Ahmedabad was intolerable, just as New Delhi in 1984 was. Yet, you now throw your weight firmly behind the Congress.
You're also experiencing changes in your personal life. You can now afford a couple of penthouses in prestigious Delhi pincodes. You travel business class (if not in the Prime Minister's entourage). You've made it. Moneyed pleasures are cloying. You feel a vague urge to unearth newer dimensions to success.
In this backdrop, the national elections deliver the best possible verdict. The BJP is defeated and the Congress comes back to power. It's time for over-the-top celebrations. Fellow journalists, select businesses and sundry actors of the capital are popping open the champagne. You feel compelled to join in the revelry, never mind that the nation will interpret your beaming face. What's not to celebrate? Finally, here's a party worth worshipping. It's headed by a queen who refuses the crown, has been galvanised by a prince with an alleged Midas touch and the new government will now be headed by the most trustworthy Indian (only the final part of this statement is true, you know that, but what the hell!).
From now on, you can enjoy unlimited insider scoops. You yourself are an insider. You haven't noticed it, but over the years, the anti-fascist content of your reports have decidedly become pro-Congress. Your slide in position has been glacial - an imperciptible movement in slow-motion - but those who now matter have noticed it. You no longer allow people with opposing opinions to have their say in your shows. You will be rewarded. With high civilian honours, plenty of political gossip and incessant opportunities to interview the Who's Who. Your channel will certainly air its share of Exclusive News. Again, thanks to you. By now, your idealism doesn't recognise you (it languishes in fusty memorabilia in your closet where, without your knowledge, skeletons have crept in).
What you've also conveniently forgotten is that two disparate demons were challenging India in the 90s. The fascism of the religious right was just one of them. The other, equally lethal demon, was the market fundamentalism of the financial right. That's right. Ultra-capitalism. The theory that markets will self-regulate and the government must exercise no control whatsoever over businesses. Do you know why you blocked out this development? The fact that your own financial success depended on it. Your media house relies on these businesses to thrive. Over the years, you've been part of your media house's think-tank and you've accepted that some targets are never meant to be shot at. Sure, you can aim at and bring down any political lightweight at any time. That's always fun. You can't be touched while doing so. But the businesses - they're now sacred. They must not be touched because, well, the tricolour is still thumping inside your chest. Good things are being done to India by these businesses. If they need to cut corners in the process, then you must understand. You now have the maturity to understand.
That's why, when the Congress won itself another election and alliance partners proved to be a pain in the proverbial butt, you decided that there was no harm in playing the middle fiddle. For one, you were helping the "sole national, secular party" meet a crucial objective. For another, you were helping businesses take India to the next level.
How you wish you knew your conversations were being recorded! You wouldn't have sounded like confiding a crush to a high-school friend. You'd have invented a code worthy of an espionage thriller, so that the middle fiddle sounded like the middle ground. Yes, the middle ground. The spot you were obliged to occupy as a journalist.
Journalism is a difficult profession. Of all the professional roles I've played in my life, being a journalist has been the most difficult. And the only way to hold on to your sanity - and pursue the, shall we say, truth - is to operate on the premise that every belief you hold MIGHT be wrong. The news is never about you, your convictions, your take on life. It's about facts. If you have the heart of a humanitarian and the mind of a robot, there's an outside chance that you will be a good journalist. Unfortunately, few in the Indian media currently fit the bill.
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