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A SEASON OF MISCHIEF(Selected essays of Nirmaldasan, webpublished in June 2013. Email: nirmaldasan@hotmail.com)CONTENTS
1. In Defence Of Vegetarianism
1. IN DEFENCE OF VEGETARIANISM It did not occur to me, a few years ago, when I went out to lunch with an acquaintance, that there was a sect called vegetarians. We went to a hotel, the name of which we scarce took notice. When our order was served, my acquaintance seeing the meat before him was almost to the point of retching. He was a vegetarian. His attitude towards meat was amusing to me, and I would have poked fun at him had he been an intimate friend. But this not being the case, I restricted myself to a smile — directed towards the waiter, who acknowledged it with a broad grin. A vegetarian, needless to say, is one who abstains from meat. But what is the cause of his abstinence? Before I answer this question, let me, for the sake of convenience, divide vegetarians into two groups. One group consisting of those who have eaten meat but have ceased to do so; the other of those who have never tasted meat in their lives. I shall first consider the latter. Perhaps they consider meat to be an unclean thing, or count the consumption of which to be a sin. He who considers meat to be an unclean thing is justified in being a vegetarian, only till such time he be convinced otherwise. As for him who believes consumption of meat is a sin, I have the following argument. Why is it a sin? Is it because it involves killing creatures? If so, then he who believes it to be so has no right to kill even a mosquito. But not killing a mosquito is a sin, for it is most likely to suck a fellow mortal’s blood and perhaps infect him with malaria. To this argument one may defend his stand, saying, it is not the killing of harmful creatures, but that of the harmless ones which is a sin. But then, if I may ask, is he prepared to eat the meat of harmful yet edible creatures? Had I put forth these arguments to my acquaintance, who no doubt belonged to this category, I should not be surprised to see him make a change in his stand. And he would be justified in doing so, for his abstinence is based on a deeper reason, which is difficult to conjecture, and not on that flimsy reason — which I have refuted — as he would have us believe. ‘Why is it difficult to conjecture?’ is the question that might arise, and which is not to go unanswered. Let me consider the other group, consisting of converts to vegetarianism, to help me answer this intricate question. A friend of mine, who belongs to this group, abstained from meat when he was in Grade 6. He never gave a proper reason for his conversion, nor did I sincerely ask him for one. Even if I had asked him without the slightest tone of ridicule in my voice, he still would have been unable to furnish a proper reply. I am sure of this, for I myself — a vegetarian? the reader may ask — was once caught in a similar situation. This friend and I went to another friend’s house for lunch. There we found vegetables for my friend and chicken, as usual, for me. I apologized to my friend, who now played the host, saying that I had become a vegetarian. He asked me, “Why?” I could give him no satisfactory answer. That I could supply no satisfactory answer does not go against vegetarianism, even as a satisfactory answer, had I been able to provide, would not go against non-vegetarianism. Vegetarianism is founded on personal convictions which the person concerned is entitled to keep to himself. One may not find my defence sound, and may even label it nonsense. For them I have this suitable expedient: “When I can subsist on vegetables, what is the need for meat?” After all, if I can adapt an old adage, only a vegetarian can understand a vegetarian.
2. THE PROBLEM OF BEGGARS In the second year at college, E.B. Rajkumar (an intimate friend) and I jointly submitted a project Beggars And Their Lives as was required of us to clear the paper on Social Ethics. It was a project imaginatively done. No questionnaire was prepared and no beggar interviewed. And the project was done in a couple of hours. Such a project, so insincerely done, fetched us the highest marks in the class. We do not deceive ourselves that the lecturer concerned in marking the project was not able to discern our insincerity, but believe that the topic, being a novel one as compared with that of other projects, was the sole cause for the project being thus rated. Here is an extract: “We found, to our surprise, 64% of them were married. The following statistics would give an idea of the number of children they have:
1 child — 42% Hence it is quite clear that they sincerely adhere to the family planning programme. “Then we asked the beggars why they sent their children to beg and we also tried to interview their wives who also happened to beg along with their husbands. But to our disappointment we did not receive any answer to the question regarding their children; and we were not allowed to speak to their wives.” The project thus concludes: “We are sure that if society considers ‘begging’ a social problem, then there would be no difficulty in eradicating the same.” Two years have passed since I co-authored Beggars And Their Lives. I take up the subject again, though my views on it have not altered. But this time I propose to consider those points that were not considered in the project. Tossing a coin to a beggar is not charity. Does anyone know what happens to the alms he gives in the name of charity? I have seen beggars smoke and have known some to lend money for interest. As yet I am unaware of the other ends the alms are put to use. Are we to brook such misuse of alms? No, certainly not. Beggars are a mean lot. Offer a job to a beggar which can be done by him, and he will reject the offer. Some beggars are so worse that they fling curses when refused alms. Should a person be charitable to such a mean lot? No, certainly lot. I never toss a coin to a beggar. I do not for a moment believe that the entire race of beggars would perish if alms are not given to them. But, you will agree, ‘begging’ will certainly be no more. By giving alms we tend to make beggars dependent on us. It is something which I abhor. But let us suppose that a charitable man gives a substantial sum of money to a beggar, enough to keep him away from begging. This may perhaps make the beggar independent. But we cannot hope to find enough charitable men to make the whole race of beggars independent. It simply is not possible. It is absurd. What is to be done? Some of the beggars are adept enough to play the flute; some, the harmonium; and some, other instruments. Do you think that such talented ones will perish if we refrain from giving alms? Once beggars cease to be, some may think, how can one be charitable. I stress again that tossing a coin to a beggar is no charity. Let us refrain from giving alms. Are there not schools for the blind, deaf and dumb, orphanages, homes for the aged and other needy institutions that can do well with the help of charitable men? Let us join hands and be charitable. But let not our hearts be moved at the sight of a beggar. These are my views. If there be any who agrees not with the co-author of Beggars And Their Lives and author of this unpleasant essay, let him boldly speak out. I shall not rise against him with my pen, but shall efface my views and come to him with a begging bowl to receive alms.
3. JOHNNY LEE FRANCO Johnny Lee Franco, the youngest of four children born to Mrs. And Mr. Patrick Joshua. Short — not too short — and of slender frame with little eyes and crescent smile, he seemed poetic when I made his acquaintance in the summer of 1983. There is something poetic about his name, too. I fancy that by some divine inspiration his parents arrived at the name and christened him. Apart from its sweet-sounding quality, what adds grace to it is his signature. I remember his signature being called exquisite by one of his numerous friends. Friends. He has a wide circle of friends. His brothers’ and his sister’s friends constitute a major part of this wide circle. I never could have befriended him, or even come to know of his existence, had not his eldest brother, Shalom, been an intimate friend of mine. And some time was to pass before I could answer the question “Who is Franco?” with “My friend” instead of “Shalom’s brother”. After I made his acquaintance I became a frequent visitor to his house. He would talk with me for some time and then withdraw into the interior of the house, leaving Shalom and me to talk endlessly of poetry. But on those days when Shalom was not in the house, he would sit with me and our conversation would run on topics of common interest. He liked to call me by my first name and I loved to call him by his last. And as our prattle went on, his mother would come and serve us coffee or some nutritious drink, and we would go on uninterrupted; but sometimes we would be temporarily interrupted by his mother’s voice, calling “Chinnathu”! — which can only be poorly translated as “little one”! And he would go in and return with the beverage to boost our morale. At school he did not fare well in his studies — not for a want of intelligence but for a lack of interest. But like all other students he enjoyed his school life. He would narrate to me in detail the fun that he had with his classmates, taking care to suppress the banterings of the students he had to face and the chastisement he received at the teacher’s hand for his mischiefs. Hearing his narration I would laugh aloud. My high-pitched, quaint laughter would amuse him and make him laugh too. He is a facetious storyteller. Once he narrated to me a fairy tale, mimicking the characters in such a way that had me amused; and I thought him to be a fit person for the stage. Painting is his talent, but seldom he spends time on it. He would rather sing ‘watty-the-wattyson’, a phrase he coined with my name, or listen to music or read comics than sit before a white sheet of paper with paint and brush in hand. I presented him with a set of watercolours to instill in him talent awareness, but it was of no avail. Chess became one of his passions when I presented him with a chess set on his sixteenth birthday. Thereafter our conversations revolved around the game. And whenever I visited his house, I would find him fighting tooth and nail with Shalom over the chess board. And I would watch and wait for my turn. Chess is a game played silently with utmost concentration, but not when the opponents are Franco and me. We would ejaculate and wave our fists in the air. He, like all other beginners, is fond of giving checks. And he would give a check with a witty phrase: “Check to your muttal [foolish] king!” And I would hold my sides and laugh. It is rather strange that I never picked a quarrel with him. I have had differences with others, especially with Shalom, but never even once with Franco. Perhaps it is the five-year age difference that keeps us together. In the summer of 1987 he went to a relation’s house in Ranipet to spend his vacation. I missed him much. I wrote him a letter, requesting him to return soon. A few days later I fell off my bicycle in a very interesting manner. It was the second misfortune of the year. The first had been a sickness that prevented me from writing two of my degree exams. So I sent him another letter, describing the accident in detail to make him laugh. I received from him the following reply: Ranipet, 15/5/87 Hi! Watson, how are you? I am fine here. Your letters were very interesting to read. Anyway, how are you enjoying your holidays? I received your letter today and I came to know of the accident. Was it a major one or minor? I felt very sorry for you. Can’t you ever use your brain in riding cycle and not in writing poetry? But cool! You’ll soon get well. How is Suresh? Is he making fun of you? Tell Suresh that I am having his cassette (Wham). Has Shalom improved in chess? So how are the Gauls like (Suresh, Matthew, Silas, Moses ... )? Watson, I have learnt swimming and am so happy. Here I am playing TT in the club and often go out in the car. Did you all go — to Woodlands or Chola? — for a swim? I thank you for sending your address ’cause I thought I won’t be able to write letters to you. Now, it’s raining here at Ranipet. Tomorrow we are going to the swimming pool at Kasam. This place is nearly 20 km from Ranipet and is a good place for picnic or tea. This is the second time we are going to go to Kasam. Watson, tell my mother that I visited Mr. Rajanayagam uncle’s house and that I stayed there for two days. I am praying for you so much. Please pray for my results.
Yours anytime, After he returned I became his Maths tutor. It really had me humoured. Every Saturday we would work out some problems for a couple of hours. This went on till I left for my native place in the middle of August. I returned in October to write the supplementary to get my degree. During my absence his family had shifted residence from Purasawalkam to Annanagar. This new house was quite spacious, where I was to become his Maths tutor once again. I went back to my native place in November and returned in the second month of the following year. During my brief sojourn there, I wrote a number of letters. One of them was addressed to him. He sincerely had a reply written, but failed to post it. However, he handed it to me at his residence with due apologies. Here it is: Madras, 19/12/87 Hi! Watti, how is life there? I am fine here. I have just finished my exams. So, Watti, I take my pen in the grace year of ’87 to write to you. Man, we don’t play cricket here. But occasionally we play. Hey man, I even got with another fat sow here, who is my friend now. He was my classmate. Watti, it was my exams which stopped me from writing to you. Sorry for the long delay, right? Watti, in this house we face some simple problems. It’s the cows which come and eat or feed on our plants. Watti, Karuna uncle presented us with a chessboard, which is a magnetic board and it contains four games. Chess, Ludo, Bagammon and Chinese Checkers. So we spend time or pass time by playing these games. Watson, we are gonna play mouth organ in Gospel Hall programme. Watson, you know Mani has gone crazy to a song ‘you wanna music’. It’s cool out here. Settling here in the portico is really very nice. How are you getting along with your chess? Have you visited the chess club near your house? Man, Karpov is leading right now and Kasparov is slogging out. Kasparov must win and Shalom must get snubbed or just whitewashed. Christmas is around the corner. So Happy Christmas. Watti! Hope you enjoy this Christmas ’cause you have cleared your arrears. Shalom does not play chess now. He is OK with his book now. Watson, please pray for my exams. Watti, try to be parallel to God. Don’t desert him. Remember he may desert you when your life is over. I’m praying for you.
Yours ever, His exams were around the corner. He had no liking for Mathematics, and I did my best to clear all his doubts in the subject. When his exams were over in April, I went back to my native place to get myself a job in some secluded corner. We did not mind the parting; for he had, to remember me by, two of my verses addressed to him on two of his birthdays, and I had, to remember him by, those two loving letters and knew more would follow from his innocent pen. I did not hear from him for some months, and then came this reply: Madras, 25/7/88 Hi! Watson, how is life? I am just OK here. Watson, sorry for the long break. I just couldn’t help it. Watson, I suffered from a terrible fever which took the hell outta me. Anyway I am fine now. Watson, I failed in Tamil, and I never thought it would turn out to be like this. I was so upset. I think God has some other plans for me. I have joined XII std in a beautiful institution. Shalom is just planning about his future, but he hasn’t left chess. So, Watson, how is your job? How is the place? Watson, Silas’ sister got married. But we couldn’t attend her wedding ’cause I suffered from fever. It’s very difficult to spend time without you. Man, I only got 72 out of 200 in Maths. Somehow I got through. I just want to thank you for the coaching you gave me. I think I should stop here. I am praying for you.
Yours for ever, I did not reply, but returned the very next month to Madras as it had been a fruitless endeavour to secure a job to my taste in some secluded corner. Perhaps ‘God has some other plans for me’. I presented myself at his residence the very next day, the tenth of August and wished him a happy birthday! It was his 18th birthday. What a pleasant surprise for him to see me! We had a lot of things to say to each other. He seated me in the drawing room and withdrew to get into his new clothes. He returned, looking smart in his new clothes. He had always looked smart and believed in the adage ‘clothes maketh the man’. I had known him for half a decade, and I know our friendship would last for ever.
4. A MORAL QUESTION I was called for an interview in Coimbatore, an interview in which the interviewer showed me the door with these words: “Our company is not a training ground for fresh graduates.” Then why the devil did they call me, when it could be easily discerned from my resume that I had no experience? I very much regret for not having given them a piece of my mind. I should have—! Forgive me, reader: I fear I have digressed, for the interview is not to be the subject of this essay. Our attention is to be focused on the eve of the interview, when I arrived in Coimbatore and boarded a bus to take me where my relatives dwell. As I was new to the place I asked one of the passengers, an old man, to tell me where I was to get off and I showed him the address. The old man consented, and even assured me that he himself was to get off at the same stop. “This is the stop,” the old man said and got down as the bus came to a halt. I followed suit with my suitcase and shoulder-bag. The evening was dark, and the old man placed a hand on my left shoulder and said, “Come, I’ll show you the way.” His curious indulgence and the dark lane ahead made my heart beat faster; and the old man’s hand fell off my shoulder as I scuttled away from him. I did not mention this incident to anyone, but my action is not to go unquestioned. I ask myself, “Am I justified?” Apart from the old man’s curious indulgence and the dark lane lying before me, I think there was a third reason for my ‘mean’ act. It was a notice which struck mine eye as I arrived in Coimbatore: “Beware of thieves”, which must have registered itself in my subconscious and made me scuttle (a possibly mean act). I say ‘possibly mean’ for the old man might have been a thief after all. On the other hand, the old man might not have been a thief. He sincerely might have wanted to help me, for I came to know later that the dark lane, through which the old man had intended to take me, was one of the paths that led to my relative’s house. This complicates the matter for me that the moral question echoes again and again in my mind: “Am I justified?”
5. THE SPACE SHUTTLE TRAGEDY The English professor entered the classroom with a smiling face. It was not one of those days he had to lecture to emptiness. The room was packed, nor was the professor surprised as he would have been had it not been ‘test day’. “Imagine you witnessed the space shuttle tragedy,” he said with a tragi-comical voice. It was only then that the challenger and its inmates had come to grief when it was about to be launched. As I was not aware of this fact, I could not put my pen to paper as quickly as the other guys and gals. I shifted uneasily on the chair and scratched my head and made a 180 degree turn. “What’s it all about?” I whispered. A whisper came back to me from the entity to whom the question had been put forth. I gathered that all the seven astronauts had died, of which five had been men. “Five had been men, which means …” I let my fancy roam as advised by the poet Keats. Two short stories ‘Gift of the Magi’ by O. Henry and ‘No Comebacks’ by Frederick Forsyth came to my mind and they gave my fancy wings. What I came up with was not an essay but a story. Nevertheless the professor was highly pleased that he read it out to the class and gave me 86%. Enough, enough of gloating! I seem to be no good at blowing my own trumpet. Let me withdraw from the scene and leave the story behind: It is not clear why I was in an upbeat mood that day. The space shuttle was about to be launched. The countdown began … and then it exploded. The noise deafened my ears and dazed I stood! Apart from the slight fear which I experienced, I had no other emotion swell in me. In truth I was in a state of apathy. I knew my wife had gone with the space shuttle for ever. And though I did not lose my wits, I should admit that I incurred a momentary loss of memory. A few tears trickled down my cheeks. But I suppose those were that of joy and not of sorrow. Was not I a loving husband? Or was she a cruel wife that I should delight in her death? No, no, this is not the cause. A fine astronaut she was; and so was her friend. The problem started when she introduced me to her. Certain things can never be explained. She was not as beautiful as my wife. And yet I fell in love with her at first sight. And she reciprocated. It must have been heaven’s decree that my wife should remain ignorant of this affair. May her soul rest in peace. I breathed a sigh of relief. I stepped into the Cadillac and inserted the ignition key. Soon I was rolling smoothly on the highway. Where was I heading to? To my lady-love’s place of course! She had been pestering me to file a divorce suit against my wife. But now it was not necessary: the path was clear. I parked the car beneath a Sycamore tree. I crossed over the road to her house. I opened the gate and walked right in. I pressed the doorbell. No answer. I had come all the way to take her into my arms and she wouldn’t even open the door! Impatience made me bang the door with both my hands. And still no answer. I couldn’t take it anymore. I broke open the door and entered. I went from room to room. Her perfume still lingered in the air. She must have gone out. But where? Then it all came back to me. Emotions filled my being. I threw myself upon the bed.
“Restore to me!” I cried. And all around, It all came back to me. She was the other lady in the shuttle.
6. EVENING WALKS WITH MY GRANDPA My grandpa, who has survived two heart attacks, is a stout man in his early seventies. There is nothing more desirable to him than to take long walks in the evenings. He would ask me to accompany him in these walks, when I would be reading some good book. And I would feel like a school boy who has been called from play to study his lessons. I love to walk, but not with my grandpa whose principles are opposed to mine. However, I admit, there always was some interesting element in those rather tiresome walks. It is appropriate here to make a note on my grandpa's character. He is one of the many who succumbed to the British influence before independence. He always aims to strike two mangoes with a single stone at a single stroke. No wonder the evening walks had, apart from the purpose of exercise, marketing as a purpose. He would buy chillies in one shop, ginger in another though both could be purchased at the same shop. No harm whatsoever, the reader might say, but not if he knows that both the shops lie at opposite ends of the market! I have already said that my grandpa and I do not see eye to eye. Let me give a candid picture of myself so that the reader can see how his thoughts are opposed to mine. If ever you meet a lanky chap who vaunts too much, who contradicts others just for its own sake, who thinks himself to be a poet, who dislikes to move out of the house and loves to lie in bed with a book of poems,-- then you have met none other than my grandpa's only grandson. During the long walks there was hardly any conversation between us. But sometimes my grandpa would break the silence with his comments on topics interesting to him; and I would listen with unhearing ears. Sometimes, as we walked along, we would meet some of his friends. It is the conversation between them which interested me. And, I would inwardly smile. They would converse on a variety of topics. They would speak of politics, weather, man's ingratitude and other such topics. They would lash the present generation with a liberal amount of words. Each would have suggestions on how the problems of the world could be solved. Their sense of humour is appreciable. They would enquire of each other's health, and one would point his finger heavenward and say, "It is time to go there!" and crack their sides with laughter. Sometimes the conversation would run along these lines: "My wife said this. My wife said that." Once, on one of these long walks, my grandpa complained to a friend of his that my grandma wanted him to dispose of his collection of newspaper articles. And the friend said, "Your wife, too?" and advised not to yield. These evening walks are not something of the past. We still go out in the evenings. As long as there are evenings, there will be evening walks. I love the former and have come to like the latter. Allow me to wind up with a sigh.
7. A PORTRAIT OF MR. X There is no one more dear to me than Mr. X, whose swell-headedness is ever on the increase. Therefore it is not without reason that I, though with reluctance, keep his identity a secret. He is a lanky fellow in his early twenties, whose flatly combed hair badly requires oil, and whose unsymmetric beard, which he highly values, trimming. His shortsightedness has earned for him a rectangular specs which often sits on the tip of his nose. A thousand times he would stand before a mirror admiring his toad-like face. But ah, dear reader, have I struck a note of hyperbole? I am not to blame. It is my association with him that has made me a fraction of what he is! The hyperbole is his favourite figure of speech. He would say, at a prick of a thorn, that he felt as though he had been impaled to a tree by the trident of Shiva! At the beginning of this essay I mentioned that he was swellheaded. I would like to harp on that point for a while. He, having written a few limericks, makes pretence to the title of poet. And he would raise his voice with wrath, as an annoyed sage, if someone held the contrary opinion. He would say that his hopes are with posterity. And with a few imprecations he would leave the place. Yes: his hopes are with posterity. This is tacit from the hours he spends to write a letter. He thinks and thinks and writes with the vain idea that the persons he writes to would preserve his letters for posterity to enjoy. “My letters are not meant to be thrown away,” were his very words in expostulation to a friend of his. Leaving his writing skills to be judged by posterity, let us inquire into his reading habts. Not a day he would let pass without reading some book or the other. But what did he assimilate from the books he read is the question that would spring to the readers’ mind. How I wish that I could say he gathered the tiniest particle of gold from the massy ore of books! He simply reads for the sake of reading. If a person were to ask him what he derived from the books he read, the answer he would give would unfortunately enable the other to arrive at the fact that his spoken English is poor indeed! What I admire about him is that he himself feels that it is poor. Very ironical, isn’t it? There was a time when he could not pronounce the letter ‘h’ properly. But now he has to some extent overcome the difficulty. The reader can’t help but laugh to hear his sentences, such as these with malapropistic tendencies: “When was he released,” meaning discharged, “from hospital?” and “The typewriter,” meaning stenographer, “asked me to wait outside.” He has no ear for music. But he thinks that the contrary is true. He can play a few songs on the guitar, but that doesn’t, in my opinion, prove he has an ear for music. So far he has purchased three flutes, one after the other, thinking that each was improperly made as no sounds issued from them. It took him some time to realize that the fault really lay with him and not with the flutes. This realization he sought not to conceal, for he believed that true humour lay in laughing at one-self; and he wanted to show the world that he was a self-critic. A poet might say that music and sleep are not two different things. Assuming this to be true I feel that I would not violate the laws of essay-writing if I skip from music to analyze his sleep. He was a somnambulist. But now, though he does not jump out of the bed at night, he blabbers while asleep. But some of his blabberings do take on a philosophic tone. Take this one for instance: “The bus-stand is not the bus stop!” One cannot help but laugh. Let me leave it at that. Having been associated with Mr_ (I almost said his name), I know for a fact that he is not strong in arithmetic. He is not quick at addition and subtraction, leave alone the other two operations. You just ask him, “What is the time by your watch?” and he will tell you, “It is ten o’ clock by my watch. It is five minutes fast.” He can never subtract and tell you the time is five minutes to ten. A portrait of him would be incomplete if his skill at reasoning is not mentioned. Every Homo sapien ought to be good at something. And he was good at reasoning. Am I being ironical? There was a room into which he wanted to enter. So he pushed the door. The door opened not. He pushed again, and the door like a stubborn mule moved not an inch. So for the third time he placed his hand on the knob and intending to push he accidentally pulled — and the door opened. Hence he reasoned that to open a door one ought to pull. He entered the room and the wind shut the door after him. After some time had elapsed he wanted to go out. He stood before the door and said to himself: “To open the door, just pull!” And he pulled and pulled with all his strength and with all his might and with all his soul. But the door once again like a stubborn mule moved not an inch. With that I bring to a close this essay of him who thinks that his name is a synonym for greatness. The reader can stay assured that I have drawn a faithful picture of him. He has been and still is dear to me, for I have come to accept him as he is! My portrait of him might be sardonic in certain places, but that shall be set right by posterity if this essay be fortunate enough to reach its hands. 8. A TEACHER’S EXPERIENCE (1990) Part The First The first thing that a person would notice about the Principal of Kaypeeyes schools is his Shakespearian head, which looms at six feet above sea level, well in proportion to the rest of his stout frame. The next thing striking about him is his language that flows like manna and can make that which is wrong seem right, as the words of Belial in Milton’s Paradise Lost. I do not really know what my first impressions of him were when I was interviewed by him at Kotagiri in November 1988. He asked me a few questions and I answered them with a ‘come what may’ attitude. Then he gave me a pencil and paper and asked me to present the geometrical proof of an algebraic formula. I did this and that, but ‘this and that’ little helped me to arrive at the proof. “Even a VI standard boy can do it,” he said when I admitted that the problem was something that I could not tackle. I now knew that I wouldn’t get the job; and therefore I decided to put myself at ease and enjoy the rest of the interview. After a few more questions, he gave me leave to go with the usual phrase, “We’ll let you know.” “Are there any formalities,” I asked. “You’ll have to submit your certificates,” he said. I smiled inwardly and asked, “Shall I do so now?” trying to force a card. “No, no!” he said taken aback. And the interview ended. In January 1989 I joined the services of one of his residential schools. He must have been desperate, for nothing else explains my being posted at Kanyakumari as assistant teacher. During that term I must have seen him not more than four times. He would come in his Contessa and stay for a day or two and take us to some hotel for supper and then to the moonlit beach. As regards his character, people have no high opinion of him. One college professor tells me that he is a Mammon and a Don Juan. I am still in doubt whether he can be strictly termed a Mammon, but plenty of circumstantial evidence to point that he is a Don Juan nevertheless. One thing which impressed me most was his language. At the staff meetings he would talk on and on. He had some noble ideas in his head. But, of course, I don’t think he ever practised them. At that time I was some two and twenty years old. I was quite optimistic and wanted to impress him as much as he impressed me. He knew I was a university chess player, and therefore he promised to get me some chessboards so that I may teach the game to the students. And the promise remained a promise. He seldom took notice of me and kept his distance. Little did I know that we were to become closer in the months to come. In June 1989 we had an orientation at Kotagiri. There, during Talent Nite, I gave a mono-act. It was the first concrete step that I took to impress him. He was a State basketball player. Sometimes he would play with the students; and I too would enter the field. This was the second step that I took. I wanted to show him that I too could play pretty well. We became a bit closer. I noticed that he did not mind talking to me once in a while. One day he asked me why I was growing a beard. “Are you going to become a sanyasi?” he asked humorously. In a similar vein, “Quite the contrary,” I replied. Short tempered he was and very much is. In one of the staff meetings he blew his top when some of the members complained about the quality of food served in the mess. There was a time when I wondered how new and new ideas could ceaselessly spring from his head. Soon I found that he had exhausted his stock. He began to repeat himself quite often. Whether he did this knowingly or unknowingly I have not thought about. But it was clear that he had nothing more to say. I should say ‘almost nothing’ lest I belittle his grey cells. In January 1990 we had a few programmes to commemorate the 10th anniversary of the school. There was hectic work for all of us. And as the headmaster had been forced to resign, all his responsibilities fell on our heads. Some sort of tension was in the air. He was really tensed and began to take each and every teacher to task. “And even you are not bothered!” he screamed at me. However, the programmes were carried out with little hindrance. On the last day of the celebrations, I received an order to this effect: I was to be incharge of the school during his absence. For four days the school was in my hands. I was quite upstart and felt that Shakespeare’s classic line ‘uneasy lies the head that wears a crown’ was arrant humbug. I had a report written on the proceedings of the school in his absence. And he was much pleased. That weekend we had some sort of school planning sessions. He was not satisfied with the present system. Therefore, he asked me to work out a timetable quite different from the present one. But I was much satisfied with the present set up, and so I was somewhat vexed by his request. But I did have a new schedule worked out and he was more pleased than ever. “Don’t you think that the students won’t have enough time for sleep?” He was considerate. “They have seven hours sleep, sir, between 9.30 p.m and 4.30 a.m.” I was cynical. “Ah, yes,” he said, “but do you think it will be okay with the teachers?” “Sir, I have not considered that,” “Yes, we should not consider that,” he said; and I smiled. All along it was smooth sailing, but problems were to rear their ugly heads when he left me in charge of the school once again. His secretary, whom he had left behind — for what purpose I do not know — appeared more swellheaded than I was. She and I fought a fight, the details of which I brought to his notice in an epistle. I accused the secretary of censoring the letters of the staff and demanded an apology from her to the members of the staff. The letter invoked his ire. He called forth a meeting and announced the appointment of a new headmistress. He waved his fist and snorted like a horse and panted for breath. I was seated next to him; and, therefore, fearing his fist, I kept quiet. After the meeting, as soon as he left, I waved my fist and snorted like a horse and panted for breath. One of the staff members wanted to know why the minutes was not written. I set myself to write the minutes and had four copies typed out. Here are some key points:
* The letters addressed to the staff members have been and will be censored. If the teachers don’t like it, then they are welcome to give some other address. I wanted to throw the minutes on his desk and ask him to sign so that I may have it published in one of the dailies. But some convinced me of its futility. Therefore I gave up the journalistic approach and decided to look at it from a literary point of view. Hence this essay. Matters cooled off and he confirmed me in the services of the school and increased my pay. How we will get along in the future, it is too early to say. Part The Second School reopened in June 1990 after a long summer vacation. I had heard that the headmistress would not return as she was recently wedlocked. But to my disappointment I found her in the office as I entered to report my arrival. She was the one who was introduced to us by the principal as a person with ‘tremendous potentialities’. Yes, she has tremendous potentialities, capable of framing poetic sentences whose import cannot be easily comprehended. Here is an example, a memo addressed to an invigilator: “The copying was not only of a student but also from a teacher taken into the examination hall.” A sentence sublime that surpasseth understanding! Thank the good Lord that she left the school after a month and a half. But before she left she dealt me a blow. She had every reason for doing so, for whenever an argument sprung between us, it was I who had the last word. What was the blow? I was transferred to Karur Public School with effect from 16 July 1990. But it didn’t turn up to be a blow after all. Situated on the highway at about 7 km from Karur, the school looked calm and ‘bright’ as I walked in with the transfer order in my hand. There were a little more than fifty students and the workload was relatively light. It was an ideal place that increased my poetic sensibilities. However, I noticed that my countenance dimmed a bit whenever Mr. Bright popped in with his sparkling head. As soon as he came, I asked him for T.A. (travel allowance). He asked the manager to give me my due. And as the manager began to count the notes, he said, “Give it to him; he knows how to count.” — “Especially when it is money,” I quipped, not sparing a moment. And we all laughed together. On the selfsame day the science teacher was terminated; he had troubled the senior teacher in whose charge the school was left with; troubled her with his grievances. To set her mind at rest, the principal introduced me thus: “You have nothing to fear from him. He is not like the one whom we terminated. Of course, he does certain things and gets into all sorts of difficulties. But, in truth, he has nothing inside. He is a good basketballer and a chess player.” After two weeks, when a headmistress appeared on the scene, the senior teacher told me that he had added, “I too play my game of chess with him: only that I think out my moves in advance.” And I said to her, “Well, if that is the case, I’ll give him an added advantage. I’ll let him know of my moves in advance.” Then did we begin to make our moves on the chessboard of life, without sound and fury, signifying everything. In a long letter to a cousin of mine, I gave a full description of the school and its activities. He replied that it reminded him of a school in a Dickens’ novel. One thing peculiar to Kaypeeyes schools is that the staff are assigned all sorts of odd duties. Every staff is expected to be a nurse, a peon, a watchman and what not. I served as a conductor of the school bus for nearly a year. I am sure that this experience is sufficient to get a job in one of the transport corporations! Everyday a staff by turn will have to supervise every activity in the school. He has to ring the bell at 5.30 a.m. to harbinger the arrival of morn to the students and he has to do all the other odd duties until 9.15 p.m. Throughout the day he is addressed as M.D. (Master of Duty). Just imagine the plight of the staff concerned when this duty falls on a Sunday. For a couple of months I made no significant move. At the time when the science teacher was terminated, I was asked by the principal to be the physical director too. “I am physically weak,” I pleaded. “But we can’t afford to appoint one,” he said. And that was that. The workload slowly began to increase. Holidays ceased to be holidays. On Gandhi Jayanthi we were compelled to take the children for an outing to a place 15 km from the school. The tragic part of it is that we had to walk. But of course I have no reason to complain, for the little kids, though their legs were swollen the following day, did not regret the walk. A few days later, much vexed by the pitiable state of the school, I resorted to non-cooperation. As a result, I received an ill-worded memo on 8 October 1990. I would not have been given this had not I likened the principal’s move (transferring me to Karur) to dirty politics. I could find no precise word other than this to describe the switch that he made. The maths teacher from Karur was brought to Kanyakumari and I was sent to Karur to fill up her place. Dirty politics! But to return to the memo. I unleashed an undiplomatic response beginning thus: “I have been asked in quite unclear terms (ref: i. deciplinary; ii. Taken against for you; and iii. Declination of duty) to explain why disciplinary action cannot be taken against me for dereliction of duty.” My reply put the headmistress in a fix. She asked me to return the memo so that she may make the necessary corrections. I did not oblige. She said that she had nothing against me; and that it was a matter between the principal and myself. I did not know whether I should pity her. She reminded me of the old man in Aesop’s fable who tried to please everybody. As the manager was not in the office, she had to type the memo with the necessary corrections. The forefinger did all the job. Here’s the revised memo followed by my response: Karur, 9/10/90
Dear Sir,
Sd/ Headmistress Karur, 10/10/90
Respected Madam, It is needless to say that we sign the staff attendance register on all working days. The fact that we don’t sign on Sundays implies quite explicitly that we don’t work on Sundays. Therefore the question of dereliction of duty on a Sunday can never arise. But, as this is a residential school, I am well aware that on holidays someone is required to look after the students and to engage them in various activities. I happened to be that someone on 7/10/90. I took Sunday school, games and CCA on the said date and liked it too. The reasons why I did not turn up for the study are as follows:-
i. Six days of toil had made me weary. I badly required the seventh for rest. Yet in spite of all this, I should with humility admit that the end never justifies the means. I should have once again made known to you my grievance or sent a petition to the principal regarding this. The mistake is mine. True to my salt I remain
Yours dutifully, I was pleased with myself, and all the more pleased as my reply met with no immediate reaction from the management. The matter seemed to sink into oblivion. Students from Kodaikanal Public School came, and the principal also came a little while after they arrived. There was fun and frolic on campus. We had a sort of cultural programme and I performed a mono-act, much to the delight of the students. A month rolled off peacefully. Meanwhile I made another move. I stopped signing the exeat register, which every staff was supposed to sign whenever one leaves the school premises. And a staff is allowed to go out only thrice a week. The management countered my move with a memo. I wouldn’t mind affixing my thumbprint on the register, for Kaypeeyes is nothing short of an open gaol; but asking me to sign the exeat — what the devil! I thought like that but I wrote like this: Karur, 23/11/90
Respected Madam, I did not sign the exeat register because I did not (and still do not) see any reason why I should sign the same. Moreover I was not bound by the exeat rules in Kanyakumari Public School (from where I was transferred here); and so I see no reason why I should be bound by them here.
Yours faithfully, A few days later I was informed that sick leave, which I had taken a few weeks before, was not granted. I tried to reason it out with the headmistress, but she said that she had nothing to do with the matter. Therefore I was forced to write to Mr. M.L. Bright, secretary of the B.A.M.E. Trust. Here follows the text: Karur, 27/11/90
Respected Sir, I would like to point out that a confirmed staff is eligible for 10 days’ sick leave with full pay (ref: Chapter IV, rule 5 of the B.A.M.E. Trust rules). I would also like to point out that the exigencies of the business of the school, during my absence, was a bare minimum. I, therefore, request you not to cut my salary for the days on which I could not report for duty. However, if the management feels that my request merits no reconsideration, kindly assign to me the reasons why sick leave was not granted me. Hoping for a favourable reply.
Yours faithfully, A few days later, even before the letter reached his hands, he came with anger writ large on his face. That day I happened to be the master on duty. At about 4.15 p.m. I received the termination order dated 30/11/90: The services of Mr. WATSON SOLOMON are hereby terminated following the memos issued to him and his defiance of orders and unsatisfactory explanations, on the following grounds:
a. Gross indiscipline
Sd/ M.L. Bright I first had my tea and then confronted him in his office.
“You can’t terminate me, Sir,” I said with a smile, “without holding an inquiry.” He cut me short with a blow from his sooty fist. My specs went flying onto the floor. Unperturbed I stood like Napoleon with ‘legs apart and arms locked behind’. “You can’t talk to me like that!” he said, seeming to grunt like a pig. I didn’t say anything. I regret that I didn’t kick him, but I wasn’t a donkey anyway. He then called me a thousand different names, each leading to a climax, and advised me to respect him. “Learn to respect any boss, for that matter,” he concluded. “Not necessarily,” I said, not knowing what else to say. He punched me again. No animal can be so provoked as he. His personal secretary, headmistress and the manager were silent witnesses. I did not return the blow for two reasons, as P.G. Wodehouse might put it.First, on principle; and second, because I had not the required strength.
“Take your specs and get out!” he screeched like an owl. That worked. I did not wish to argue any further. I thought it indiscreet to linger on and get a broken jaw. “I’ll meet you where I should,” I said and packed my things. I received my full salary and bade adieu. He extended his hand and I shook it warmly. What a way to leave the school premises without signing the exeat!
9. EXPERIENCE IN A HURRY Journalism, says Mathew Arnold, is literature in a hurry. And newspapermen in the services of any eveninger are sure to agree. My particular experiences in a couple of eveningers were gained in a hurry and invariably shared by my sometime colleagues in a spirit of rare camaraderie and as a matter of routine. At this point I must hasten to add that all scribes are in a hurry to meet deadlines. But for those in an eveninger, it is a sprint against the clock. This is fairly obvious as the edition is brought out within half a dozen hours. What happens between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. is anybody's guess. My first task was to browse through all the morningers (both English and Tamil) and mark up some or more stories for either rewriting or translation as the case may be. Rewriting was never a problem. What is in the active voice, I simply change to passive and vice versa. But translation work is something that kills the creative instinct. On the days I happen to be shrewd, I manage to dump it on a colleague, saying, "The boss wants this done," concealing the fact that it was I whom the boss had singled out for the thankless task. Other perfunctory tasks that had to be performed were monitoring the teleprinter, sorting out stories filed by news agencies and answering a spate of phone calls least related to the editorial. I also had to deal with advertisement material and do some copy-writing when the need arose. And it came to pass that the boss discovered in me the poetic virus. Consequently I was assigned poetic tasks — to sing the praise of the powers that be. I think I shamelessly did a good job of it too. Besides editing press releases and taking down reports over the phone, I had to read a clutter of proofs. Now and then a printer's devil would appear on the page and cock-a-snook at the boss. Reporting assignments came as a real relief to an otherwise tedious schedule. Giving headlines, though in a hurry, was also a pleasure. A relatively good heading of mine to a story about Doordarshan (DD) and STAR TV is "DD twinkles better than STAR". So this has been mine experience and the lot of any newspaperman in an eveninger. But in a morninger, we have a delightful paradox. As we race to meet the deadline, we simultaneously cool our heels ...
10. EDITORIAL: THE MATHEMATIST December 1991. Ten years ago. The inaugural and only issue of The Mathematist, a sort of technical journal, was published by the secretary of the Mathematics Association, Madras Christian College, in his personal capacity. But to lend it an air of authority, he invited articles for the next issue in a secretarial capacity. This faux pas was easily condoned by the Department of Mathematics as the journalistic venture was `laudable'. The magazine, supposed to be a quarterly, did not survive as its editor dropped out of college two months later. The Mathematist is a portmanteau word — a marriage between Mathematics and Artist. Its single-point agenda was to push Mathematics in the aesthetic direction. The unsigned editorial was written by the editor N.W. Solomon. While Watson S. wrote Peculiar Equalities, Nirmaldasan penned The Mathematic Principle. To the reader the three persons were different, but in truth they were one! Besides, the editor did a bit of ghostwriting too. The magazine did receive quite an enthusiastic response at the Loyola College and the Indian Institute of Technology. But one needs money besides enthusiasm to keep a venture ticking. A friend funded 50 per cent of the capital. The A4-sized journal, comprising four pages, cost about Rs. 1000 for 750 copies. Some seventy copies were sold. The project was, in terms of money, a dismal failure. One professor in hindsight observed that it was the most foolish thing that a student could do. Rs. 1000, had it been saved, would have grown now to about Rs. 3000. Yet The Mathematist was a success story. It helped its editor to get the job of visiting lecturer at the MCC in 1995 and the Asian College of Journalism in 2000. The unsold copies have yellowed with age. They are occasionally used in the classroom to discuss content, typography and design. What is more? It helps its editor to go on an ego trip which he cannot with Rs. 3000.
11. CONFESSIONS OF AN EDITOR There is nothing noble about the founding principle of the Journalism Online site and its monthly newsletter. The site was launched in May 1999 at freetown.com and later shifted (because of a digital nighmare) to angelfire.com, where I had first gained an online identity with the nirmaldasan home page. In March 2000 the first issue of the Journalism Online newsletter was released with a subscriber base of five members (including two e-mail addresses of mine). Now, thanks to shameless self-promotion, there are more than 400 subscribers (all free, of course!). And those who are reading this may please jump on the bandwagon and help the newsletter grow. But to return to the founding principle. The site was launched just to expand my online empire. Linkalism, a gift of the World Wide Web, helped me do this in style. I just searched the web and gave links to the best sites that focus on academic journalism. I also collected some articles and wrote a few too. But one fine morning the site disappeared. This was the digital nightmare. Fortunately I had a copy of the index page posted in geocities.com. But all the articles except mine were lost for ever in cyberspace. It took me quite some time to build it up again (this time at angelfire.com). Its url: https://www.angelfire.com/nd/nirmaldasan/journalismonline The newsletter was started at onelist/egroups/yahoogroups. If things change in the real world in arithmetic progression, they change in the virtual world in geometric progression. Onelist merged with egroups and then yahoo took it over. At present (on the Net we can only be sure of the present) the newsletter can be accessed at http://yahoogroups.com/group/journalismonline . The reason why I started the newsletter and continue to bring it out month after month is simply because I wanted to be an editor and wish to remain so. Though the motive is selfish, there is no such thing as an absolute evil. The good part that cannot be taken away is those informative articles contributed by selfless persons such as Frederick Noronha, Ammu Joseph, K.S. Subramanian, Arul Aram, Subhash Rai and a host of others. The editorials chiefly focus on academic journalism. I write them all as though writing editorials is the editor's prerogative. I have collected the editorials written in 2000 and have put them up on the site to nourish my ego. That the editorials would also help media students is incidental. Those who wish to read all my editorials may check out the back issues of the newsletter. I have also published reviews of my books in the newsletter. But these books are literary and therefore have no business whatever to be in the newsletter. But who can question the editor? The Creative Pulse section of the newsletter was started to promote literature. But what has literature to do with journalism? Except for language there is nothing common between the two. Yes, there is something called literary journalism which I have discussed in one of the editorials. But I am not sure whether that can be a good excuse for self-promotion. Since the site and the newsletter are located in free servers, I do not have to bother about the most important thing in life -- money. I have not made any money from these digital ventures. However, an article titled Neighbourhood Journals posted at the site attracted notice and its author Mangalabhavani was offered $ 10 for reprint rights by the now defunct Globalinks. My articles, not surprisingly, have fetched no money. I have, however, benefited indirectly. The Asian College of Journalism and the Indian Institute of New Media gave me the chance to deliver a couple of lectures. And I am still a visiting lecturer at the Madras Christian College. So I do make a tidy sum in addition to the salary that The Hindu, South India's largest selling newspaper, gives me for the work that I do as senior sub-editor. I think that the digital experience has been really good despite the nightmare.
12. THE BLOGGER’S NARRATIVE The content of a blog, weblog to be precise, can be as trivial as an insignificant entry in a diary or as serious as an editorial in a mainstream daily. Likewise, the language of a blog can be colloquial or standard, incoherent or coherent, plain or sublime. You simply cannot tell bloggers what they must put in their blogs. You also cannot convince them of the importance of grammar and style. The only thing that you can do is refuse to be a reader. But bloggers are a peculiar lot. They don't care whether you read their blogs or not. They just key in their thoughts and publish. And their first impressions download into the public domain. Instant publishing gives bloggers the power to say what they want, no matter if they lack the linguistic skills. It caters to the expressive instinct. But the silver lining is that good blogs eventually find their readers. With that in mind, I became a blogger on February 5, 2004. My first blog simply announced that I had web-published a collection of poems titled 'Literary Trivia & Curiosities'. I have been posting blogs only occasionally. I will be recording my first impressions. In my blogs I will also offer a second opinion on topics that interest or provoke me. The blogs will be tethered to my various moods and will reveal my personality in all its glories and shortcomings. Here is a sample titled 'Reasonings Of A Mortal', posted on Friday, 13 February 2004:
"I am a christian by birth. A vedantin by choice. And a hypocrite by nature."
“Dear Nirmaldasan, I promptly removed the signature.
13. DECCAN CHRONICLE: ONE RUPEE JOURNALISM What can you get in Chennai for one rupee? The gossipy Deccan Chronicle, the 'number one' newspaper in neighbouring Andhra Pradesh. And if you are an ICICI Bank Cardholder, you can get it for just Rs 99 a year. The advertisement soliciting subscriptions had this slogan: "More news. More information. More entertainment." The Chennai edition of this spicy daily was launched on March 28. M.J. Akbar, Editor-in-chief, in a brief editorial note, said: "We offer reporting that is independent, courageous and fair, and comment that honours ideas and treats analysis and opinion with flair." Not many, for some reason or the other, take the Deccan Chronicle seriously. One reason could be that there is more entertainment in the form of dare-bare dollies than news. But in its April 2 edition, it ran an article by Joginder Singh that seemed to fulfil Akbar's testament. Titled 'Lay down the law for sting operations', the article persuasively argues that sting operations must be mounted only against persons 'against whom some evidence of criminality already exists and conclusive evidence can be obtained'. Mr. Singh points out that in the US the FBI carries out about 170 stings every year in keeping with clear guidelines for such operations. The newspaper's supplement Chennai Chronicle does contain local news and features, but not enough to justify its name. There's much Bollywood gossip and the already mentioned dare-bare dollies. Actually I asked the news agent to deliver the Deccan Chronicle only to keep a critical eye on its contents. But gossip, you know, is really addictive -- not to mention the visuals. That's a price you pay for being a media critic. I am tempted to retell a gossipy story from the pages of the Chennai Chronicle. But that is not wholesome journalism. It is, however, imperative to bring to your notice the newspaper's gossip philosophy. Here is a passage from a story titled 'Esha likes Zayed but Zayed loves Mallika' (April 22): "Maybe there's nothing to it and the two are only friends, but since we are in the business of making it our business to know other people's business, we thought we'd keep you posted. After all they don't call us newshounds for nothing, do they?" Though I am against dumbing-down of news, I can't unsubscribe now. The newspaper knows a few tricks to hold on to its increasing tribe of readers. First and foremost, it comes cheap. It has a chess column for those who believe they are intellectually inclined. It also has a monthly poetry contest for the emotionally refined. I have sent a piece of verse titled 'Sleeping Neta', hoping for the first prize of Rs. 1000. That's the reason why I cannot unsubscribe, at least till the results are out.
14. EXPERIENCE: A DECADE AT THE HINDU I joined The Hindu on 2 May 1995. In my application I had said: "As a chess player I can do some individual thinking for your newspaper. But I also play basketball and so am capable of team work." Or something to that effect. But all the individual thinking I did was for myself and never had a good record for team work. I quit The Hindu on 30 June 2005. Here's my resignation letter: "I have been offered the post of Head-Department of Media Studies in the Hindustan College of Arts and Science, Kelambakkam. I am indebted to The Hindu for 10 years of rich professional experience. I have always been in love with academics -- even had a stint as visiting faculty at the Asian College of Journalism. Hence I wish to take up this job, though the salary is lesser than what I am drawing at The Hindu. Please accept my resignation and relieve me at the earliest as the academic year has already begun." The Hindu relieved me with regret and placed on record their deep appreciation of my good work and contribution to their organisation all these years. Those were courteous words and nothing more. In a decade I had written less than 10 articles for the newspaper when I could have certainly written more. Anyway that wasn't my job as I had joined as an ordinary sub-editor. When I was introduced to an assistant editor, who now is the chief news editor, he shook my hands, smiled and asked: "Have you joined as chief sub-editor?" Ten years later, when I left the hallowed precincts of The Hindu, my swift juniors were assistant editors and I an ordinary senior sub-editor. My juniors were really good -- I mean it. They were journalists to the core. I blundered into journalism thinking that it was another name for literature. I realised the mistake much before I joined The Hindu, but I had already taken the beaten track and it appeared that there was no chance of exploring the road not taken. I simply did the best of a bad job. However, I kept my literary interests alive and burning. I also became a visiting professor (with office permission) in different institutions. I became so involved in this part-time work that I even consciously began to neglect my editorial responsibilities. I do not wish to humiliate myself by listing out my memorable blunders. To do justice to myself, I should say that I also came up with some good headlines. But a sub-editor's job, you know, is a thankless job. I remember how thrilled I was drawing my first month's salary. Compared with the work and salary in my previous organisation, in The Hindu it was 'half work and double pay'. Ten years later I was still drawing a good salary, but my attitude had changed. I was fond of saying that I work full-time for MCC, where I was a visiting lecturer till recently, and part-time for The Hindu. So it was high time for me to quit. But when I broached this idea to some of my friends in The Hindu, they did their best to dissuade me. It was difficult to imagine a life beyond The Hindu. Indeed The Hindu is one of the finest newspapers in the world, though its standards are rapidly deteriorating thanks to The Times Of India influence. The Hindu has always been employee-friendly. Whether you work or not, you will get your salary, allowances and that most-awaited bonus. Beyond The Hindu, everything comes at a premium, especially job security. It is only natural that I was in a dilemma. But what decided my course of action was a catchy quote in the May 2005 issue of Children's Digest. I end this article with that quote attributed to John A. Shedd: "A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for."
15. TRIBUTE: REMEMBERING PHILIP THOMAS Philip Thomas helped his father found the evening newspaper The Madras Times in 1990. After a couple of years, he took full charge of the daily. He used to call it euphemistically a ruling party paper. It proved to be a fertile training ground for many journalists, who now are ensconsed in responsible positions in the major national dailies. Since it was a 'ruling party paper', it could not even last a decade. A change in government tolled the end of the business. But it is not fair to talk ill of a newspaper that is defunct. And so of Philip Thomas who passed away in May this year. I joined The Madras Times a month after its inception. As I was sporting a long unkempt beard, Philip Thomas must have thought that I was a scholar and gave me a job without a formal interview. I wrote a couple of articles and he seemed impressed with me. One day we had a minor dispute about the spelling of a word. He insisted that he was right -- there was no dictionary to check at that time -- and asked me with a mocking tone whether I had studied chemistry. You should have seen the surprised look on his face when I said mathematics! Within a couple of months, he hinted to me that I was not cut out to be a journalist. I could write well, of course. But I knew nothing about politics and society, a knowledge essential for the practice of journalism. I did not believe him. I was still labouring under the impression that the difference between journalism and literature was one of degree, not of kind. He had foresight. It took me about fifteen years to understand this. His remark was vindicated when I put in my papers at The Hindu in June last year and joined as a full-time academic in The Hindustan College of Arts and Science. You can't take Philip Thomas for granted. One moment, he would be friendly and the next no one can know what hit him. Since my seniors had migrated to other newspapers, I was almost in charge of the newspaper. I would get the dummy ready and he would come in the afternoon to check it. One day he came a little late in his jeep and honked. I took the frontpage dummy to him. He spotted an error and up flew the dummy from his hands and went under the jeep. He made an indecent gesture and drove away. But I was able to retrieve the dummy even as he pressed the accelerator. But the very next morning he was so very friendly that you cannot but forgive him. On another occasion, the eveninger very nearly landed in the soup. He dictated an article and I was his usual scribe. He made some defamatory remarks about a lady who now is no more. The fool that I was, I religiously wrote everything he said, believing in the adage that the boss is always right. He asked me to set up the copy and went to the High Court where he was a practising advocate. But by the time he returned, the pages were done and sent to the press. I and my journalist colleagues also called it a day and disappeared. Something made him to retrieve the pages and have a look at the story. I am not sure whether he hit the ceiling because the following day, he said that my skin was saved. Philip Thomas, Dr. Philip Thomas (thanks to some American university) could write very well. His was not the literary mind. He would say that it was easy to write high-brow stuff, but very difficult to erase the ego and fall flat with the pen at one's feet. I believed him and dished out some verses in praise of the powers that be in the manner of Edmund Spenser and his Faerie Queene. He would also say that his loyalty to the ruling party was skin deep. But he was thick skinned. He could flatter, but I am sure he wouldn't like to be flattered. He lived his life the way he wanted to. His passing away may not be a great loss to journalism, but it should be to all those journalists he groomed. A few of them turned up at his funeral. I didn't go, but I would like to place on record that his death is a loss to Journalism Online as he really was and now virtually is on this newsletter's mailing list. 16. HOW TO WRITE A GLOSA A glosa, as its name indicates, is a gloss or a commentary of a short piece of verse. The commentary may be serious or mischievous and follows the structure of the original verse. The first stanza of the glosa is just a reproduction of the original verse in double quotes. The subsequent stanzas constitute the glosa proper, whose number depends on the number of lines of the original verse; and each stanza will end with a line of the original verse in corresponding order. An example will help to clarify this. I have taken T. Ashwin Kumar’s quatrain titled ‘Waking Up With A Polar Bear’ and attempted a glosa (9 December 2007):
"When I woke up from a hot summer night,
I had swooned into a slumber deep
Even the helpless gods are crying treason!
Throw the sun into another galaxy,
When I curled up into a ball of fire,
17. REVIEW: FEMINA’S GOLD ISSUE It is not just gals that make the Femina family; guys are part of it too, as shown in a spread in the magazine’s bumper anniversary special. That gives me the right, I guess, to be a peeping Tom. Besides, I paid Rs. 50 for it. “On our golden anniversary, we are breaking all the rules in the book, celebrating change and going all out to have fun,” writes Tanya Chaitanya, Editor, Femina, in the magazine’s gold issue of November 5, 2008. In the signed editorial titled ‘Turning Point’, she quotes ‘a gem from a reader’: “There’ll be new magazines, there’ll be international publications, but there’ll only be one real, Indian women’s magazine. There’ll only be one Femina!” There’s a corrigendum titled ‘OOPS!’: “In ‘Aishwarya & Bipasha trust us with their clothes’ (Believe, Sept 24, 2008), we inadvertently forgot to mention that Gauri and Nainika’s hair was done by Faheed Ahmed, Keune Academy and their makeup by Komal Gulati, Keune Academy. The error is regretted.” Usually, editors regret errors of commission. This is the first time I have come across an editor who regrets an error of omission. Trivialisation of the worst order! In the ‘you-to-us’ pages, a reader writes: “For the last 15 years, since I got married, I have been a regular reader of Femina, eagerly awaiting the arrival of its every issue. The reason is simple: Femina is a friend, philosopher and guide.” Another reader, ‘hooked to the magazine’, writes: “There’s always something new to learn from it. Inspirational, thought-provoking, educational and informative, Femina has brought style and glamour to every reader, and enhanced her home. Keep on rocking!” At this point, I wonder why these quotes are not among the prize letters. Deepa Malik’s interview to Corina Manuel titled “I refuse to be anyone’s stereotype” is surely inspirational. Here’s the blurb: “She’s set a record swimming the Yamuna, represented the country in international sports events, signed up for the Roadies show and runs a restaurant. Oh, and she’s an avid biker. There are not too many places that Deepa Malik’s wheelchair won’t go.” I need to point out that this article is but an exception and not really the stuff that Femina is made of. Here’s a quote that meets Femina’s idea of a prize letter: “Your tips on spicing up my sex life, renewing a stale marriage, falling in love all over again, and fighting for what I believe in gave me the strength to retrieve my marriage from the brink of disaster … It’s brought me back my husband, as a lover … It’s fantastic to have him wait for me to return, so that he can check out what I wore … and that too after eight years of marriage!” After reading this quote if you think that the magazine saves a marriage on the rocks, think again. Femina is asking you: “How many men have you slept with?” And the blurb says: “Whether it’s one, nine or none, there’s always a story behind the number and it’s almost always a secret. We asked 10 women some very nosey questions about their sexual past and came away with more than just the number.” And there is “50 nights of great sex”. Femina interviews three persons in “Breaking Rules, crossing boundaries”. Shona Urvashi, Mumbai, says: “I arrange funerals for trees to show support for the environment.” Deepta Roy Chakravati, Kolkata, says: “We love the look on people’s faces when we tell them that we’re witches.” And Hemangi Mhaprolkar, Mumbai, says: “Friends ask if working with gays has turned me into a lesbian.” Enough, more than enough of this ‘collector’s edition’ consisting of more than 450 pages and filled with plenty of advertising. I shall not be a peeping Tom again. Femina is minding its business very well. And I must mind mine.
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