Sunday, January 01, 2006

Where is the Journalist?

There used to be pen in their hands. It has been replaced by mikes. They used to have a writing pad to scribble the world onto it. Now they have those recording machines. They used to think and ask and hear and write. Now they don’t think and ask and don’t hear and ask again. There used to be camera dangling around their necks. Now they have a cameraman and a video recorder along. They used to observe and wait and observe and click. They used to click moments and bring out generations. Now they don’t observe, the cameraman tries to capture everything which he can, they record life and bring out chaos.

A soldier died fighting for his country. He was a Major. His body is brought to his native place. They are taking him to the cremation grounds. He was the only son of the parents. They are mourning him but they are proud. Their son has lived as their son but he has died as a son of million mothers. He was a son of the nation.

The make up done, the mikes ready and videotape rolling, this young lady who looks more like ready for a walk on the ramp is ready for her interview of the life. That Khadi Kurta fails to make her look like a Journalist.

Ms Reporter is in the frame. The mother of the “News Item” is silently following her son in his last journey. With a smile on her face the reporter blurts out the question from the list provided by the producer. “How are you feeling right now Mrs. …..”. A tear rolls down the eyes of the mother and she moves on.

How would a mother feel after loosing her son? I guess on top of the world!!!

Where is the mind of the journalist?

In Bangalore Prof. M C Puri from IIT Delhi has been killed when someone started firing outside Tata auditorium. The news has been on air for some time now. And in less than 30 minutes the “Journalists” are their in front of the Professors house. They would not have cared if he had invented new theories for operations research. But now he is a ‘News Item’. After all they have to keep their channels running 24 X 7.

The guy in a well made suit, with a polished accent is proud like he has won a gold medal for India in Olympics as he asks “Hello Pradeep. Can you hear me? Pradeep tell us how is the atmosphere in and around the house of …ummm…. ummm…. Prof Puri.”

How was the atmosphere in his house when his old man passed away? They must have danced whole night.

Where is the culture called Journalism?

It has become a war among channels. They hide cameras in people’s houses and call themselves Tehelka. They care more about Shahid and Kareena kissing then they care about Manjunath’s being killed. They print 40 pages of newspaper. The news in those 40 is less than 4 pages. They care about selling News Items than bringing news to the ‘Junta’. They run factories. They manufacture news. They don’t want to bring the truth of what is happening around. They just want to be the first to bring a News Item to you.

A pen used to be mightier than sword. They don’t fight with swords anymore and pen I guess can’t compete with bullets and bombs. The pen is lost somewhere. The might of pen is lost somewhere. The hands and minds that used the pen are lost.

Where is the Journalist?

No comments:


Sukhdev Singh is milking a buffalo when I call him. We are speaking after a long gap. His voice carries the same cheerful energy I remember....