'See, we are not against CPM, but we are pro-Mamata', quipped my friend, now an editor of a Bengali daily in the metropolis of Kolkata. I was not startled.
In West Bengal, after the demise of a 35-year Left rule last May, the social computations obviously got recast. Mamata Banerjee, now the Chief Minister, single-handedly took hold of the rein of a fiercely political state after a landslide victory in the Assembly election. She reduced Communist Party of India, Marxist (CPM) to almost a non entity. No wonder my editor friend would sound a neutral, being 'not against' the defeated but proudly to be 'pro' new ruler. Did I have a cool afternoon with him in his cabin; I wondered when I was in the middle of the honking street.
When the protagonist is journalism I develop a problem. The profession, to me a truthfully right vocation, these days often twirls into an untruthful realm. Coming down from my friend's cosy office, with an ambience of smart young people, my problems started trickling in my stomach. I started feeling uncomfortable.
Never ever I considered a newspaper can be neutral or it should be so. Even so my friend's voice sounded to me strange since he told me with all caution and almost in a whispering tone. I was a bit scratched though but not injured.
Every reader is instilled with an impression that a newspaper should be neutral, and this hype is created by the Newspapers themselves. Can they really be neutral? Has it ever been anywhere in the world? I have heard none yet. New York Times and Washington Post, The Daily Telegraph and the Times (of London) — are they neutral? Then why should my friend's daily should try to be neutral? And if he is not, why should I get scratched?
All of us know media is known as The Fourth Estate, meaning it's a body that stays apart from the government and large interest groups of any nature. But the fact remains, media keeps itself alive only on Advertisement, and on no other means. How can they vouch for neutrality then? It's just drum beating, nothing else. We know that an individual reporter's personal agenda, how truthful it would be, will work nowhere, since he too is in the live loop of survival.
Thus I could find my friend no wrong. And I had no reasons to be injured not even for a scratch.
Even so I was sad, taken aback at the good reasoned policy of a Newspaper. Possibly my friend was furthering his 'Balancing' tactic which I didn't hold up. 'Balance' is not synonymous to fair, and not an easy way either to avoid reality reporting. The 'Balance', I consider, is the most treacherous act since it shirks the responsibility to inform readers. A newspaper has to inform, and inform what it believes in. So I expected my friend's daily to be either 'anti-CPM' or 'pro- Mamta', and not both, in which objectivity gets the beating resulting slow growth or no growth in paper's readership scale.
Objective reporting is considered to be the face of neutrality, since objectivity ensures an appropriate standard which is fairness and accuracy. And many believe these days true objectivity is never possible in a media since now-a-days, in most cases media is a 'purposeful business', a front line business proposition. Readers or no readers.
Monday, January 23, 2012
My Tutor in College Street
Dipak Bandyopadhyay, a journalist with the extinct daily Amritabazar Patrika, was my classmate in Journalism class in Calcutta University. One day, hearing my fears about the ensuing English exams he assured, 'Not to worry. Babyda will get the medicines for you.' How come? No teacher, no coaching centres, no tutorials, but just some Babyda! I was aghast. Who is this miracle man? How come he provides medicines for exams? Those days, 40 years back, in Kolkata, brain-jerkers were far off thoughts.
Next day he took me to a lean and thin person, anywhere between 40 and 50, wearing milky white dhoti and kurta. He was sitting cross-legged on a small platform in the centre of a hooked-on-wall U-shaped 6x4 frame of bookshelves, with a dangling signboard on top that read 'Books'. It was no wider than a roadside pan shop. His bookshop was covering a flowing drain below. That was Babyda!
This, I found later, was the most sought after address in the College Street para for every English literature student. I was then studying two different subjects, under two different postgraduate faculties in Calcutta University (a double MA, in English literature and Journalism). Since I was keen on pursuing a career in journalism, I often missed the finer nuances of Eng-Lit literature studies. As I was alone in the metropolis from a far-off small town, I had to look after myself. I had to earn, feed and study—all by myself—to run my show. Hence, many a times I had to bunk my English classes in Room no 20 during the day, and rush to Room no. 23 to attend Journalism classes in the evening. Obviously, seldom I had time to flip through the pages of several textbooks of English literature. My only book for my English studies was Albert's History of English Literature, which I borrowed from a friend.
On first look Babyda was in his typical shape. His teeth were constantly grinding, his thin lips made his chin sharp like edge of an axe. His eyes were deep in the sockets, but bright. His first reaction to Dipak was curt enough. Without even looking at me he dismissed us: 'Its simply not possible. I cannot lend books. You will have to buy them.' I was groping, yet intervened meekly, 'I can pay fifty per cent of the price.' Now Babyda turned towards me and said, "Bah! How clever! I will pay for the rest! You think you are so important to me, huh?' I was unnerved, 'I will return you the books unsoiled, and you can sell them in full price!' 'Who is this boy, Dipak? How come you bring such specimen to me? No Sir, you may leave. Please.' I felt insulted. No one ever dared behave in such a manner to me. I just turned and walked away.
But I returned next evening, assured by Dipak, 'Don't trust his words, trust his heart.' And Dipak was so true! At the outset Babyda rebuked me again. I didn't miss the affection his tone this time. Then he gave the verdict, 'No problem. Here are the books, but you will have to read them sitting here, in front of me ', and pointed to a small bench on the top of a drain. The same evening I began my study amid the hustles and bustles of College Street book market.
Babyda was not a graduate. A single man, somehow managed this space over a drain, and made his living out of it. Soon he discovered the need of a single-window bookshop. He built up his tiny bookstore with an unfailing list for English Literature text and reference books in tune with the prevailing syllabi of the graduate and postgraduate courses of different universities of the state. I discovered, I was referred to the right place indeed.
During my everyday study-on-the-market-bench, what I didn't realise was that an undergraduate was tutoring me for my postgraduate finals! Babyda started guiding me from day one. He suggested me what to read, and what not to. He kept on telling 'You don't have the time to cover a years' course within two weeks. So let's be specific.'
He would dump upon me more 'note books' written by unknown people and would tick questions on pieces of papers pushing them between the pages, and would say, 'Read nothing else, just this will do'. He kept me away from the original texts, saying, 'No need at this stage. You know the history of English literature and that's enough!' I followed him blindly, more for I had no time for looking for any, nor did I know a better source.
Two days before the exam, he let me go home with books needed for the first day's exams on the condition that I return them to him the same day, and collect the bunch for the next one. Thus he forced me to visit him every day. I followed his dictate without any question. Did I have any alternative? But after five-six such evenings I was very upset, thinking he was making me run just for fun. I politely asked, 'You could have given me the books at one go, but you couldn't trust me, I know'. Babyda smiled for a while and then let me fall for his feet. He admonished me, 'How stupid you are! I could give you all the books at one go. But that would have drifted you from the important questions. I was trying to help you focus only on those, so that you don't lose precious time.' And I was not surprised; I got slightly above 50% in the exams.
Babyda is no more. But his same tiny bookshop, 'Books', is still there. Now someone has turned it to one window for all books, with a changed name, 'Books & Books'.
Next day he took me to a lean and thin person, anywhere between 40 and 50, wearing milky white dhoti and kurta. He was sitting cross-legged on a small platform in the centre of a hooked-on-wall U-shaped 6x4 frame of bookshelves, with a dangling signboard on top that read 'Books'. It was no wider than a roadside pan shop. His bookshop was covering a flowing drain below. That was Babyda!
This, I found later, was the most sought after address in the College Street para for every English literature student. I was then studying two different subjects, under two different postgraduate faculties in Calcutta University (a double MA, in English literature and Journalism). Since I was keen on pursuing a career in journalism, I often missed the finer nuances of Eng-Lit literature studies. As I was alone in the metropolis from a far-off small town, I had to look after myself. I had to earn, feed and study—all by myself—to run my show. Hence, many a times I had to bunk my English classes in Room no 20 during the day, and rush to Room no. 23 to attend Journalism classes in the evening. Obviously, seldom I had time to flip through the pages of several textbooks of English literature. My only book for my English studies was Albert's History of English Literature, which I borrowed from a friend.
On first look Babyda was in his typical shape. His teeth were constantly grinding, his thin lips made his chin sharp like edge of an axe. His eyes were deep in the sockets, but bright. His first reaction to Dipak was curt enough. Without even looking at me he dismissed us: 'Its simply not possible. I cannot lend books. You will have to buy them.' I was groping, yet intervened meekly, 'I can pay fifty per cent of the price.' Now Babyda turned towards me and said, "Bah! How clever! I will pay for the rest! You think you are so important to me, huh?' I was unnerved, 'I will return you the books unsoiled, and you can sell them in full price!' 'Who is this boy, Dipak? How come you bring such specimen to me? No Sir, you may leave. Please.' I felt insulted. No one ever dared behave in such a manner to me. I just turned and walked away.
But I returned next evening, assured by Dipak, 'Don't trust his words, trust his heart.' And Dipak was so true! At the outset Babyda rebuked me again. I didn't miss the affection his tone this time. Then he gave the verdict, 'No problem. Here are the books, but you will have to read them sitting here, in front of me ', and pointed to a small bench on the top of a drain. The same evening I began my study amid the hustles and bustles of College Street book market.
Babyda was not a graduate. A single man, somehow managed this space over a drain, and made his living out of it. Soon he discovered the need of a single-window bookshop. He built up his tiny bookstore with an unfailing list for English Literature text and reference books in tune with the prevailing syllabi of the graduate and postgraduate courses of different universities of the state. I discovered, I was referred to the right place indeed.
During my everyday study-on-the-market-bench, what I didn't realise was that an undergraduate was tutoring me for my postgraduate finals! Babyda started guiding me from day one. He suggested me what to read, and what not to. He kept on telling 'You don't have the time to cover a years' course within two weeks. So let's be specific.'
He would dump upon me more 'note books' written by unknown people and would tick questions on pieces of papers pushing them between the pages, and would say, 'Read nothing else, just this will do'. He kept me away from the original texts, saying, 'No need at this stage. You know the history of English literature and that's enough!' I followed him blindly, more for I had no time for looking for any, nor did I know a better source.
Two days before the exam, he let me go home with books needed for the first day's exams on the condition that I return them to him the same day, and collect the bunch for the next one. Thus he forced me to visit him every day. I followed his dictate without any question. Did I have any alternative? But after five-six such evenings I was very upset, thinking he was making me run just for fun. I politely asked, 'You could have given me the books at one go, but you couldn't trust me, I know'. Babyda smiled for a while and then let me fall for his feet. He admonished me, 'How stupid you are! I could give you all the books at one go. But that would have drifted you from the important questions. I was trying to help you focus only on those, so that you don't lose precious time.' And I was not surprised; I got slightly above 50% in the exams.
Babyda is no more. But his same tiny bookshop, 'Books', is still there. Now someone has turned it to one window for all books, with a changed name, 'Books & Books'.
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