Next Friday is International Journalists’ Day. Not to be confused with India’s National Press Day which is celebrated on November 16, and is the only day in the year when a journalist is allowed to speculate on when and where the rosogolla was invented, television channels are allowed to criticise demonetisation, and cartoonists are allowed to caricature any one of the Ambani brothers.
How do you become a journalist? Often it starts innocently enough. You are six, your sister is three and she appears annoyingly happy as she plays with her toys, hitting one with the other in an easy rhythm to see what will happen. Nine brothers out of 10 would look away and carry on with their lives, telling themselves something along the lines of “None of my business”. But one in 10 makes it his business to stick his nose in, and offer advice or angry words or poke fun.
Educated parents take one look at this and nod knowingly at each other. “Ah!” they say, “Our son, the journalist.” Unlike manufacturers of snuff who put their business into other people’s noses, my fraternity is known for the reverse. In fact, with our college diplomas and university degrees comes a certificate officially naming us the “Interferer-Generals” of the community.
We are licensed to grill, thrill chill, drill, provide the frills, and when it’s all over, to bill. James Bond would be jealous. If we had a number, there would be too many zeroes at the start, so that idea was dropped. Double 0 and triple 0 are easy enough, but anything beyond that is difficult to remember.
When did you decide to become a journalist, I am often asked, as if I had a choice. Ever since I can remember I have been cursed with curiosity, a tendency to mind other people’s business, and to do everything at the last minute. At some point I decided to monetise these natural attributes, and walked into a newspaper office.
Telling people what to do is our main occupation. One day we are telling politicians how to run the country, the next we are criticising the Secretary-General of the United Nations, and sometimes on the same day, we advice someone who has played a hundred Test matches in cricket where his toes should point when playing a particular stroke. We don’t shy away from telling bankers and movie makers and economists and cabinet makers and fighter plane manufacturers and mountain climbers and road planners how to do their jobs.
But should any of these professionals tell us how to do ours, we take offence. Why can’t he mind his own business, we say, and leave us to mind ours — which involves minding his, of course. Bad manners make a journalist, said Oscar Wilde; if that were so, most people standing in queues around the country would make excellent journalists. Also, the pen is not mightier than the sword — have you ever tried cutting somebody’s head off with a ball point?
(Suresh Menon is Contributing Editor, The Hindu)
