Teaching the teachers

May 27, 2009 at 9:09 am (Stray thoughts)
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I had an unusual request last week — to lecture a group of about 40 secondary school teachers who were undergoing a government course at the Directorate of Technical Education in South Mumbai.

A number of professionals from different fields had spoken to them, and I was asked to speak on mass media.

I was more than apprehensive. It’s one thing lecturing teenagers, but teachers are a different ball game altogether. Their thoughts are more evolved — teenagers’ opinions are still evolving and they subconsciously know that, which makes them a lot more open to what you’re saying. (Before that remark sets off a storm of protest, let me qualify that — I don’t mean teenagers don’t think hard about things that should matter to them; it’s just that at a younger age your thoughts are more flexible.)

There was another complication. Like my last talk to a group of students and parents, the teachers by and large were not comfortable with English. They came from across Marathi, Hindi, Urdu and some English schools.

So, when I walked into the classroom last Monday (May 25, 2009), I was on tenterhooks. I became even more nervous when the entire group stood up and wished me good morning — yes, just like their students would greet them!

I spoke for about five minutes in broken Hindi and asked them if they had any questions. They had been waiting for the chance.

Most of them were very curious about how we arrived at our news decisions. Many of them admonished me — actually, journalists in general — for publishing “indecent” photographs in the feature sections. “Our students are corrupted by this,” complained one teacher. “Do you apply any standards of morality when you plan such sections,” asked another.

My response was what it has always been down the years: “How many of you’ll have ever bothered to walk into a newspaper office and voice your displeasure? Or written to the editors? A newspaper can be highly interactive, provided you take the trouble of talking to it. It’s pretty obvious, but most readers actually don’t bother.”

There was another point I made: Your opinion is not necessarily the same as everybody else’s.

Also, let’s not forget, a newspaper is an easily-supervised medium. You can simply deny your children or students access to the sections you find offensive. It’s a lot tougher to do that with the internet (parental-supervision software is as vulnerable as child-proof bottle caps).

The teachers seemed pretty satisfied with that answer and moved on to how they could guide their students on careers in the media. Apparently, a lot of students ask them this and they wanted to know everything there was to know — from the qualifications required and the starting salaries to the best mass media institutes in the country.

Many of them were furiously jotting down notes and the very strong vibe I got was that they cared deeply about their students.

The teachers came from places as far away as Raigad district. Alibaug, which is its headquarters, is over 100 km from Mumbai by road. And they had been making this journey every day for several days just so that they could be better teachers in the end.

It was humbling. I know I could never make such a commitment myself.

This July, I start teaching mass media again — at the Mumbai Educational Trust in Bandra. I know that just because I speak English better I will not make a better teacher than the ones I encountered that day. Those guys are a tough act to match.

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A classroom outside a classroom

April 15, 2009 at 10:13 am (Uncategorized)
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Strangely enough, one of the most fulfilling experiences of my professional life has only a tangential relationship to my work.

While I am a journalist, I found the two semesters I taught final-year Bachelor of Mass Media (BMM) students as — if not more — satisfying than anything I’ve done in a newsroom.

The students were eager and happy to have somebody who didn’t talk down to them. They were also well-informed, with intelligent opinions and a genuine interest in the media.

I guess my not being a teacher by profession helped because I didn’t know how to conduct a ‘lecture’, opting instead for interactive sessions. The students — not to mention I — felt more comfortable this way. It was almost as if they were conducting the lecture and I was merely filling in the blanks.

Also, the kids were really sharp and it kept me on my toes.

But that was a classroom and we worked within the framework of the topics assigned. So, I was apprehensive when I was asked to talk to a few students and their parents about media as a career on April 12. I said yes because the students being bussed in were mostly from Urdu schools and from less privileged backgrounds.

I was curious about how it would turn out, whether they had any inclination at all towards journalism. I was intrigued also by another aspect — the students knew very little English, while I am hopeless in Hindi and don’t know Urdu at all.

How would we communicate? Would they look upon me as just another slick-sounding character who didn’t really care?

So, my heart was in my mouth as I looked at the audience that Sunday. The ‘few’ students and parents turned out to be an audience of over 450. “That’s it,” I thought, “I’m sunk.”

It struck me then that what worked in my BMM class would work here. I refused to get on the dais, choosing a cordless mike instead and walked into the audience as I spoke. Five minutes later, I threw the floor open for questions. And there was a flood of them.

I was happily surprised at the eagerness those teenagers exhibited. I was even more surprised at how interested the parents were.

Like in my college classes, it was the girls who were the most vocal. You just had to look into their eyes to understand their desire to break out of the shackles of conservatism and to make something of their lives.

They asked me all sorts of questions — from how bad the work hours are and what they could expect to get paid to how biased the media were in their political reportage.

And it didn’t matter that I was struggling with the Hindi and lapsing into English every few seconds. We understood each other perfectly.

When I started, I thought I would run out of things to say in a few minutes. In the end, the organisers had to stop the talk because we had run out of time and another speaker was waiting. Several students followed me out and I continued answering questions in the courtyard.

This is not a vanity blog. It’s not about how something turned out well for me. It’s about how the students of today — cutting across social layers — always make me feel great about the future. I’m not among those who have nothing but criticism for the youth. I don’t think they take their futures for granted, I don’t think they are unwilling to work hard and I don’t think they are casual in their choices or commitments.

My students and those at the talk are evidence of this.

I miss the feel of a classroom, and I miss being around those razor-sharp minds. Maybe some day somebody will ask me to teach again.

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Fort in the sea

March 11, 2009 at 8:59 am (Uncategorized)
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I have just returned from a short trip to Murud-Janjira. While the beach resort (165 km south of Mumbai) was relaxing, by far the greatest experience was my visit to the Janjira sea fort. The only way to access it is by sailboat from the beach. There were several moments when I felt that it would capsize, but the expert sailors got us there safely. And a pod of three dolphins that kept us company helped keep my mind off the danger.

Built on an island a few hundred metres off the coast by the African spice trader-king Siddhi Jauhar about 950 years ago, Janjira is one of India's few unconquered forts. Till 1947, the flag of the Siddhi kings flew from its ramparts, replaced by the Indian Tricolour in 1947.

Built on an island a few hundred metres off the coast by the African spice trader-king Siddhi Jauhar about 950 years ago, Janjira is one of India's few unconquered forts. Till 1947, the flag of the Siddhi kings flew from its ramparts, replaced by the Indian Tricolour after Independence.

As the boat tilted and swerved through the waves, many felt we wouldn't make it. But the Janjira sailors were more than a match for the wind and the waves, getting us across with just a tattered sail and a long bamboo to guide the boat.

As the boat tilted and swerved through the water, many felt we wouldn't make it. But the Janjira sailors were more than a match for the wind and the waves, getting us across with just a tattered sail and a long bamboo for a rudder.

The rock for the fort was cut from a hill on the island itself. While centuries of pounding by the rain and the sea have eroded the rock by up to two inches at several spots, so good was the construction that the joints in the walls remain intact to this day. The architects also threw in a visual trick -- the rounded walls ensure that you can't see the entrance to the fort unless you are very close. By th time, any invader found the entrance, much of his military strenght would have been destroyed by Siddhi fire. No wonder the Portuguese, British and the Marathas failed to ever conquer it.

The rock for the fort was cut from a hill on the island itself. While centuries of pounding by the rain and the sea have eroded the stone by up to two inches at several spots, so good was the construction that the joints in the walls remain intact to this day. The architects also threw in a visual trick -- the rounded walls ensure that you can't see the entrance to the fort unless you are very close. By the time any invader found the entrance, much of his military strength would have been destroyed by Siddhi fire. No wonder the Portuguese, British and the Marathas failed to ever conquer it.

Here's where you jump off the boat. The sea swell made the craft with the stone jetty tricky business, but, it seems, there's nothing a Janjira sailor can't do.

Here's where you jump off the boat. The sea swell made aligning the craft with the stone jetty tricky business, but, it seems, there's nothing a Janjira sailor can't do.

The first thing Siddhi Jauhar did was build a shrine for a sage who went by the name of Panjatan Paanch Peer. The rest of the fort was constructed around this shrine. Every time Jauhar needed to go to Africa he would pray for the fort's safety during his absence. Like I said, the fort was never conquered.

The first thing Siddhi Jauhar did was build a shrine for a sage who went by the name of Panjatan Paanch Peer. The rest of the fort was constructed around this shrine. Every time Jauhar needed to go to Africa he would pray here for the fort's safety during his absence. Like I said, the fort was never conquered.

At 22 tons, this is the second-heaviest cannon in India. No boat could tansport such a heavy object to the island, so the Siddhis brought in metal rings from Africa and then sealed them together with molten lead. You can still see the joints between the rings.

At 22 tons, this is the second-heaviest cannon in India. No boat could tansport such a heavy object to the island, so the Siddhis brought metal rings from Africa and then sealed them together with molten lead. You can still see the joints between the rings.

A freshwater lake surrounded by miles of salt water? Strange, but true. As Jauhar chipped away at the rock, he struck a freshwater spring. The 60-ft lake that he built served the 2,500 people who lived in the fort. By the side of the lake, he built a sheesh mahal (glass palace) for his wife, Zubeida. The coloured glass refracted the sun's rays to form a rainbow on the surface of the water. Incidentally, this isn't the only freshwater lake on the island. There is another, which was used for washing before prayer.

A freshwater lake surrounded by miles of salt water? Strange, but true. As Jauhar chipped away at the rock, he struck a freshwater spring. The 60-ft lake that he built served the 2,500 people who lived in the fort. By the side of the lake, he built a sheesh mahal (glass palace) for his wife, Zubeida. The coloured glass refracted the sun's rays to form a rainbow on the surface of the water. Incidentally, this isn't the only freshwater lake on the island. There is another, which was used for washing before prayer.

The view from the highest point of the fort. People lived in it till 1972, when the government declared it a monument of historical importance and shifted the residents to the town on the coast. The town was called Rajapuri because the Siddhis ruled it. A Ganesh temple in the fort was shifted there and is a place of worship even now. The ruins of the Siddhis' elephant paddock can also be seen in the town.

The view from the highest point of the fort. People lived in it till 1972, when the government declared it a monument of historical importance and shifted the residents to the town on the coast. The town was called Rajapuri because the Siddhis ruled it. A Ganesh temple in the fort was shifted there and is a place of worship even now. The ruins of the Siddhis' elephant paddock can also be seen in the town.

Remnants of the royal darbar. Only three-and-a-half storeys of the orginal seven remain. The fort was home to three communities -- Muslims, the Kolis and Buddhists -- all ruled by an African. It doesn't get more diverse than that.

Remnants of the royal darbar. Only three-and-a-half storeys of the orginal seven remain. The fort was home to three communities -- Muslims, the Kolis and Buddhists -- all ruled by an African. It doesn't get more diverse than that.

Padmadurg Kasa, the sea fort built by Sambhaji a few miles across the bay from Janjira. Padmadurg Kasa -- directly in front of my room, incidentally -- was built as a launchpad for an invasion of Janjira. Sambhaji never succeeded, and the fort turned into a ruin. At one point, it was even used as a jail. Janjira's original name, by the way, was 'Jalzeera' -- a combination of the Hindi word 'jal' (water) and the Arabic 'Jazeera' (island). The region under the forts' jurisdictions came to be known as 'Padmadurg-Jalzeera', which was eventually corrupted to 'Murud-Janjira'.

Padmadurg Kasa, the sea fort built by Sambhaji a few miles across the bay from Janjira. Padmadurg Kasa -- directly in front of my room, incidentally -- was built as a launchpad for an invasion of Janjira. Sambhaji never succeeded, and the fort turned into a ruin. At one point, it was even used as a jail. Janjira's original name, by the way, was 'Jalzeera' -- a combination of the Hindi word 'jal' (water) and the Arabic 'jazeera' (island). The region under the forts' jurisdictions came to be known as 'Padmadurg-Jalzeera', which was eventually corrupted to 'Murud-Janjira'.

8 Comments

The bookseller

January 26, 2009 at 5:46 pm (Uncategorized)

I stopped for a red light at the Worli signal on my way back from the Strand Bookstore sale on Republic Day.
As my daughter and I chatted, a little boy ran up to us, trying to conduct a book sale of his own. He was one among the ubiquitous sellers of pirated books who man Mumbai’s signals.
As it became clear that I wasn’t buying, he asked me whether I could give him a lift to Siddhivinayak Temple, a few kilometres down the road. It was an unusual request, but I would be passing the temple anyway and he seemed a decent sort, so I agreed.
He hopped in. As the car started again, he tapped me on the shoulder and asked whether I read books. I pointed out the bags of books we had bought and said I had enough to last me a year.
Seeing his disappointment, I tried to steer the conversation to something else. I asked where he lived, and with whom.
“My father died from drinking too much,” he said. It would have been a matter of fact statement if it hadn’t been for that ever-so-slight quiver in his voice.
“How old are you,” I asked.
“Ten.”
“Why are you selling books at the signal?”
“After my father died, it fell upon my mother to earn the rent we pay for our house. But in recent times, my sister has been keeping unwell and my brother and I have to earn the rent now,” he said, adding that his name was Ajay.
I fell silent as I tried to imagine what Ajay’s life was like. Studying him intently, my daughter was just a foot away from Ajay but they may as well have been inhabiting different planets.
She had spent her morning having breakfast while watching cartoons, had driven in air-conditioned comfort into town, had bought books on subjects as diverse as pirates and reptiles, and would probably go out for dinner later.
Ajay may or may not have had a meal that day and had obviously been hawking books at signals all morning. That’s what virtually every day of his childhood must have been.
Ajay broke the silence by asking whether I had a job for him. “Everybody I ask says they would get in trouble with the police for hiring somebody so young,” he lamented.
“Don’t you go to school?”
“I used to before my father died…,” he said.
He then went on to explain how he made his money: No matter what book they sold, they would have to pay the seth (boss) Rs 150. The boys’ profits depended upon how much they could talk their customers into paying.
“Buy one book,” he exhorted. “How about Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns? Rs 250 only”
“OK,” I said, pulling over as the temple came into view.
It was when I handed him Rs 300 that I realised that, though Ajay may be facing a tough life, he had picked up all the tricks of Mumbai’s street trade. As I waited for the change, he said he didn’t have the money, repeating mournfully that he wouldn’t make much anyway. He had to give Rs 150 to the seth, remember?
I let it go. It struck me that I may have been had by somebody who knew the right emotional buttons to press. But it also struck me that a kid in his position may have had no choice but to learn how to hustle customers. How else could he have survived?
I wonder if Ajay and I will ever meet again. If we do, he can be assured of another book sold.

11 Comments

Cricket meets life

December 16, 2008 at 9:01 am (Stray thoughts)
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Would I be a little over the top – or worse, jingoistic – if I say Sachin Tendulkar’s century in Chennai was one of the strongest replies to the terror attacks in Mumbai?

 

But first, let me take you back two decades, to February 1988. I was a schoolboy at the nets at Mumbai’s Azad Maidan. I wasn’t very good at the game, so I spent a lot of time fielding, stopping balls stroked by people who could actually bat.

 

It was just a couple of days after two then-unknown Shardashram Vidyamandir students, Sachin Tendulkar and Vinod Kambli, had gone berserk in a Harris Shield game against St Xavier’s High School. The two scrawny kids had belted everything hurled at them to the boundary, notching up a world record 664-run stand.

 

It was all Mumbai could talk about.

 

Coincidentally, just a couple of days later, Shardashram coach Ramakant Achrekar brought his team to practice at a pitch just a few metres away from ours. Their regular pitch at Shivaji Park had been dug up, if I remember right.

 

Our net practice ground to a halt as soon as we heard which team had arrived. We asked – in fact, demanded – to see Sachin. Our coach walked up to the Shardashram lads and yelled “Sachin, ikde ya!” (Sachin, come here!) A small, thin kid walked out from the crowded net, reluctantly, staring at the ground, too shy to look at us.

 

Someone asked: “Ae, tu hain Sachin?” (Hey, are you Sachin?)

 

A slight, almost imperceptible nod was the reply.

 

We tried to talk to him, but it was obvious he wouldn’t utter a word. Unimpressed, we let him go.

 

Then, he padded up.

 

There’s one thing common about greats in any field: there’s just something different about them as they go about their work. Not necessarily an extra flourish, just an aura that seems to engulf them as they get going.

 

Sachin, bat in hand, was no longer meek, shy or unimpressive. My eyes popped out as he creamed every ball. But more than that, there was something very perfect and beautiful about everything he did, even the simple act of picking up the cherry and tossing it back to the bowler.

 

Sachin’s success and subsequent anointment as Bradman’s successor is history and doesn’t bear repetition.

 

From all the wonderful innings he’s played, there are two that I will always remember. The first was in the 1999 World Cup. He had just lost his father, having to fly to India in the middle of the tournament and then choosing to return for that was what the poet-patriarch of the Tendulkar family would have wanted. He scored a century in the first innings after his return, against Kenya. He looked up at the heavens, as if to say this one’s for you, dad.

 

Chennai, December 15, 2008, was the next. Mumbai had just suffered the horror of a terrorist attack that lasted three days. Two hundred people had died. The city and nation were shaken, bruised. A sense of fear and despair hung heavy in the air.

 

Day 5, India chasing a record 378, a score never before achieved in the fourth innings in the sub-continent.

 

Sachin refused to get out. The analogy his bat drew was clear: It’s a terrible time for the nation, crunch time for the team. But, we can win.

 

And we did.

 

Here’s the difference between Sachin and any other modern-day great: An innings like this by anyone else would be a cricketing joy. But such an innings by Sachin can change the way a country views itself.

 

I’m not saying the century suddenly made India feel great again, but in the space of a few hours Sachin made many people like me feel hopeful once more.

 

“From my point of view, I look at it as an attack on India, and it should hurt every Indian, not only people from Mumbai,” he said after the match. “I dedicate this hundred to all those people who have gone through such terrible times. In no way am I trying to say that this will make everyone forget what happened in Mumbai… What happened in Mumbai was extremely unfortunate and I don’t think by India winning or my scoring hundreds people who have lost their dear and loved ones would feel better. It’s a terrible loss and our hearts are with them. All I can say is that in whatever way we can contribute to make them feel better, we’ll make that effort.”

 

As Sachin says in his latest endorsement: “I play for India, now more than ever.”

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Death’s calling card

November 29, 2008 at 12:36 pm (Yeh hai Mumbai meri jaan)
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I spent the few hours I got at home in the last few days hugging my daughter and telling her that I love her.

 

Staring at death and grief non-stop for over three days has amplified what I feel for those I cherish.

 

As I write this, the anti-terrorist commando operations across Mumbai have just ended. But the cloak of fear still covers us.

 

There’s no gainsaying that Mumbai’s spirit will never be broken.

 

But, like New York after 9/11, will the city I love ever be the same again? Will I ever again visit the Sea Lounge at the Taj without glancing over my shoulder? When I look out across the harbour from there, will I ever feel the same mix of serenity, joy and pride? Or, will there also be an amalgamation of pain?

 

When I walk through Colaba Causeway, will it still be as much fun taking in the sight of hawkers, the Victorian structures and the presence of the colonial ghost? Will a drive past Machhimar Nagar, where the terrorists landed in their dinghy, conjure up the same memories — of my childhood, when I passed it every day on the way to school, hoping to spot a catch of fish or whales that would get beached there from time to time?

 

It’s like 1993 all over again. I remember the day after the serial blasts that rocked Mumbai then. We drove by the Worli blast site and saw entire facades of buildings ripped away. Fans, blades crumpled by the heat of the bombs, stood like tragic sentinels to the memories of lives that had been snuffed out there.

 

A cold, icy hand grips my heart as I try to think of what it must have been like at Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus on the night of November 26 as two men walked in and dispensed death. I saw a photograph of one of the gunmen, the crazed look in his eyes. Could he have belonged to any religion at all? What faith could his heart have held?

 

At this moment, I am overwhelmed by fatigue, drained emotionally. The chronicling of a tragedy does that to you. I should know — in my increasingly long career as a journalist, I’ve brought out far more editions on such horrific events than I would have liked to.

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Change we must

November 3, 2008 at 8:16 am (Stray thoughts)
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This is a piece Shahid Latif, editor of Inquilab, asked me to write for his paper. It was part of a series on what the ‘Indian Muslim Should do now’. It was translated into Urdu — a first for me — by Shahid saab and published in Inquilab on November 2, 2008.

 

I interviewed the Dalai Lama just after the US began its post-9/11 campaign in Afghanistan. What he told me still rings in my ears. “We often forget we’re all in this together,” he said, referring to our stay here on Earth.

 

The journey of the Indian Muslim, from Partition, to December 6, 1992, and from then to today has been a ride through a perfect storm. My view is that we sit perched atop the crest of a mammoth wave that will either send us crashing to the bottom of the ocean or one from which we will sail to calm waters.

 

It will depend on how well we steer our ship.

 

It is the nature of choice that in being forced to make one, there is discomfort. The Indian Muslim finds himself in exactly in that situation.

 

The choice is this: Give up hope and rebel. Or effect a positive change.

 

We live in an age of bomb blasts, a right-wing threat and an increasing gulf between the haves and have-nots. There could not be a more dangerous combination. And the Muslim is at the centre of it. What should he do now?

 

As a business management student, I got familiar with a technique known as SWOT (strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, threats) Analysis that is often used by firms to gauge their environment and how well they are doing. It may be useful to apply the technique to the community.

 

Strengths: At 150 million, Muslims may be a ‘minority’ in India, but in fact outnumber populations of most countries. The numbers cannot be ignored. Muslims form a potent political force. They also consider themselves Indian; they don’t — or at least shouldn’t — feel they are in the wrong place even if it’s the wrong time. India is home. Also, their faith is strong, and among the younger generation at least there is a quest to underpin it with a modern view of the world.

 

 

Weaknesses: As a political force, they are splintered. There is no unity of views on the way forward. Quality leadership is conspicuous by its absence.

 

There is a huge gap in education levels. This is not just a weakness, but a serious threat. If Muslims don’t make an effort to up literacy on a war footing, the battle will be lost before it begins. And I don’t mean just primary education. Higher education — especially for girls — is critical. The community could rapidly find itself underqualified for a fast-changing world, making it turn further inward.

 

There is another serious weakness: Many tend to see everything through the prism of religion. I will never forget the experience I had while waiting for my wife in a spa lobby. Some staffers were chatting there and one of them mentioned that Shah Rukh Khan reads the newspaper while sitting on the toilet seat. While everybody else burst out into giggles, a Muslim gentleman flew into a rage and said: “If he does that, then Shah Rukh is not a true Muslim. Islam does not permit such things.”

 

I was appalled.

 

On the face of it, it was an incident to be laughed at and forgotten. On the other hand, it highlights how seeing life through the prism of faith is taken to extremes. It is this attitude that worries me because the community is then seen to be irrational, which is only one step away from extremist.

 

Opportunities: There is an opportunity to create educational and commercial institutions like Islamic banks that can make a real difference. There is an entrepreneurial streak in the community that can be used to great advantage. Sometimes, big finance is not the answer. There is an urgent need for a microfinance institution. It may achieve what government sops and reservations have not. Even small sects have grown to be prosperous and powerful. There’s no reason a great faith cannot do the same.

 

 

Threats: The community has an image problem. And it’s not doing enough to counter it. I have already mentioned education levels. Parts of the community — and not just the not-so-well-to-do sections — seem to be vulnerable to fundamentalist rhetoric. This is disastrous. Again, education will help. The right-wing baiting of the community is being responded to all too often. This will only escalate the tensions. Concentrate on bettering your lot.

 

The debate within the community seems to centre around only religion. There are other things to talk about. Open your minds to other issues: inclusive growth, education (here I go again), women’s empowerment, business, health.

 

This is, of course, no socio-political thesis. It merely skims the surface of what can — and needs to — be done. All life-altering change is difficult, but change we must. Not by weakening our faith or redefining our core, but by thinking differently. It’s an idea whose time has come; in fact, it’s long overdue.

10 Comments

Did I do the right thing?

September 14, 2008 at 6:55 pm (Stray thoughts)
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As I write this, India is still recovering from five bombs that snuffed out 30 lives in Delhi.

 

Terrorists have struck once again. With impunity.

 

Over the last 13 years I have put together more editions dominated by terror than I care to remember. It scares me that newsrooms now have the drill down pat. We no longer need to discuss what needs to be done every time a bomb goes off. We have a standard operating procedure.

 

Every time this happens, I also come away disturbed at how the media react. The shrill tone of the TV channels and their readiness to go on air with any scrap of unverified information is scary. I watched in horror as one Hindi channel said a young boy with a bomb strapped to his body had been found and that the police were taking him away to a safe spot to defuse the device, somewhere there wouldn’t be too much damage if it did go off.

 

The truth came out a little later – the boy was a poor balloon seller who had seen two men dressed in black deposit a packet into a dustbin. The bin exploded some time later and the packet those men had thrown in it was probably the bomb.

 

He was a witness, not a suicide bomber.

 

But was the print media above reproach? Did it not make any mistakes?

 

While it was a whole lot less alarmist, there is one question: Did we do the right thing by publishing the boy’s photograph?

 

Two things go against it. One, the boy’s a minor. Even witnesses in many court cases who are under 18 are granted anonymity in the media. Two, as somebody who could potentially identify the men behind a terrorist attack, his life could be in serious danger.

 

My paper published his name and picture too. And it was on my shift. I saw the page. I saw the picture on it. I saw the boy’s interview.

 

Yet, it never struck me that perhaps we weren’t doing right. That’s the problem with standard operating procedure. It’s more like an assembly line. Less like a newspaper.

 

I’d like to know what you think.

19 Comments

Delhi-dallying Part 6

August 18, 2008 at 7:53 pm (Uncategorized)
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Lotus Temple

 

This Baha'ai temple is made up of 27 'petals'. The central hall can hold up to 2,500 people. As the multi-faith prayers echoed through the hall, it struck me that it was one of the most beautiful places I've been in.

This Baha'ai temple is made up of 27 'petals'. The central hall can hold up to 2,500 people. As the multi-faith prayers echoed through the hall, it struck me that it was one of the most peaceful places I've been in.

2 Comments

Delhi-dallying Part 5

August 18, 2008 at 7:45 pm (Uncategorized)
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Nizamuddin Dargah

The dargah of Nizamuddin Auliya is one of the three major Sufi shrines of India. The other two are Moinuddin Chishti's at Ajmer and Salim Chishti's at Fatehpur Sikhri. They all belonged to the Chishti order of Sufism.

The dargah of Nizamuddin Auliya is one of the three major Sufi shrines of India. The other two are Moinuddin Chishti's at Ajmer and Salim Chishti's at Fatehpur Sikhri. All three belonged to the Chishti order of Sufism. The shrine attracts people from all faiths. It was Khwaja Nizamuddin who uttered the words 'Hanoz, Dilli door ast' (Delhi is yet far away) when Ghiyasuddin Tughlak vowed to come there to finish him off. Tughlak never made it to Delhi, dying en route.

 

The ceiling outside the grave's enclosure.

The ceiling outside the grave

Normally, qawwali is performed at the dargah on Thursday evenings. But that Tuesday morning, as I walked in, the sounds of the great devotional tradition wafted through. It was Gulam Hussain Sabri and his troupe. Mesmerising... And as they sang, a wind blew through the shrine complex, the clouds formed a canopy above and the heavens opened up. I'll never forget what I saw and heard that day.

Normally, qawwali is performed at the dargah on Thursday evenings. But that Tuesday morning, as I walked in, the sounds of the great devotional tradition wafted through. It was Gulam Hussain Sabri and his troupe. Mesmerising... And as they sang, a wind blew through the shrine complex, the clouds formed a canopy above and the heavens opened up. I will never forget what I saw and heard that day.

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