I started my journalism career in 2004. I've had a good innings so far, receiving a few awards and a fellowship from the IMF-World Bank. I've received love from readers, along with quite a lot of trolling by anonymous cowards on social media, which these days seems to be a certificate of a journalist doing his or her job properly.
That innings is probably coming to an end in 2020. While the Coronavirus may not have killed me yet, it is very much raging everywhere around me, and so far, either I am lucky, or I am one of those super lucky asymptomatic 80 per cent. But I may lose my job at any time now. Even if I don’t, life and journalism won’t be the same again. This week they fired a bunch of my dear colleagues, including my boss, the resident editor of my newspaper. I have never seen a more dedicated person. We all were expecting he would succeed the paper’s editor who is retiring in October. But no, my boss had to face the ignominy of hearing his service is no longer required. What chance do I have in this profession even if I survive the present purge?
Five years down the line, there could be another crisis, and I will be dropped like a hot potato because my salary would be higher than the others, notwithstanding what I do for the paper. No, I am not going to face this. Media is a dying business, and I will have to jump the sinking boat.
The only place where I can go now is corporate communication. But the place is already crowded, and so many journalists have been fired, everyone will be crowding there and all will face the humiliation of a rescuing act by the employer. Will I also face that insult? It is depressing.
I wouldn’t have been so morose if I were a bachelor. I should have remained a bachelor and not fathered a child. I am now responsible for giving her a good life. Never mind, I have EMIs to pay on a home loan, and other liabilities. I would hang my head in shame if I am not able to pay even the school fee of my kid. I would be a failure, which I am sure I already am being a lousy father and a husband. I never saved any money. I am bad with finances despite being a financial journalist. Or perhaps I am a financial journalist who sucks big time with my finances. Somehow, I don’t trust money and I don’t trust that saving today saves us tomorrow. I have written stories on how the entire life savings of retired people got wiped out as one bank became a victim of fraud. Of course, the deposits aren’t lost entirely; the regulator will recover everything and pay the customers, but the senior citizen could be in the death bed by that time, or may be dead.
Besides, inflation in emerging markets like ours, and high interest rates, can quickly wipe out the value of accumulated wealth. If the kitty is small, it’s as good as spending today and hoping for the best you are dead before you retire.
Somehow, I have developed a deep distrust of savings. But I know I am wrong in that. But there’s a good system of mandatory deduction of provident funds. I thought that would save me in my old age, but looks like I won’t have a steady job for it to work. I have to save, just for the sake of my kid.
What I will miss the most is seeing my byline in a newspaper. I am now so used to it that I have lost the thrill of seeing my story printed in the paper. I remember, in 2004 when I was told my story would be printed in the next day’s paper, I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I stayed awake, eagerly awaiting the sun to rise and in Shillong’s chilling cold, I waited outside for the newspaper to come. Or did I take a taxi to the bazaar to buy a paper? Perhaps that, but I don’t recall now except that I stayed awake.
The 75-100 words single-column story appeared as that of a ‘staff reporter’. I was at the top of Mount Everest seeing that.
As I am nearing the end of my career as a journalist, I am actually remembering that day. Maybe I never got down from Everest. The day when my last byline appears, maybe I will have a free-fall to the valley and die.
If I am not a journalist or a writer, what will I be? A big nothing, a zombie who can't die because he is not allowed to for now.
4 comments:
I got here when I was reading https://rochereau.uk/?s=meeting+ghetu again, and have no idea what my deleted comments said or why I deleted them. Looking back I wonder if your pessimistic tone was entirely serious. Indeed, it strikes me that your success as a story-writer was due to a tendency to dramatize reality. Which is the essence of fiction, don't you think?
Honestly, I feel like a real fraudster when you still think I am a story teller. Perhaps I never was. Perhaps, journalism was the max I could have done. Like a statistician pretends to be a mathematician.
Or, perhaps, I am not the same person you knew, Vincent. That old Ghetu is long dead.
Please forgive me for I wasting your time and energy on me who clearly didn't deserve what he got from a friend like you.
Post a Comment