Have you seen The Bourne Ultimatum? If not, you probably should. I say 'probably' because although the movie (directed by Paul Greengrass, the one who did the gloriously “unsappy” United 93) is set in real time and real world, it tends to underestimate the perils human beings face in day-to-day life.
Whoa, whoa—I heard you say. Didn't it have a scene in which a reporter of The Guardian is gunned down by a sniper at the Waterloo station, that crucible of humanity in London. How more dangerous can things get?
Exactly, my dear Watson, exactly. There couldn't be a more unsafe situation for civilized civilians. When journalists are gunned down like that, the very foundation of liberty and democracy are WMD-ied.
When I first saw the movie, this scene had me by the throat. I marvelled at the perfection, at the timing, and at the concerto-like brilliance of everything coming to culminate at that moment where the bullet strikes the scribe's head and he drops dead.
It made me apprehensive too, because I wanted to become a journalist but didn't want to end up half my face blown off. I finally decided that getting killed is the extreme-est kind of hazard a journalist can face. Nothing more than that.
Nothing more than that, my foot! Two years after that goddamn movie came out, I am sitting at a godforsaken place called Erayilkadavu (a place which can be termed as the ass-end of Kottayam town), reducing to typing this shit out and thinking about how would I avoid getting screwed the coming week.
The reason: I am at MASCOM, and I am at the mercy of a 73-year old, teddy-bear clone called K Thomas Oommen, who was the same one who set up other journalism torture centres called ACJ and IIMC. It has been three months since I began living like this.
Before coming here, friends and neighbours, I used to read two books a week and see at least 4-5 movies. I used smoke 2-3 cigarettes, no more, and drink on most Sabbaths. And I travelled places. Not to fancy spots in Himalayas, but small, unexplored locales like that deserted strip of beach at Andhakaranazhi, near Alappuzha (and most places I went boasted of good toddy shops, a particular luck by chance I guess).
And here I am now. Reduced to typing this shit out. And every down I burn midnight oil (metaphor, of course) and smoke-sticks (that's literal) trying to figure out a lead or an entire story containing less mistakes than some of my (I hope) would-be-illustrious classmates.
The fun part is when we go out looking for stories that we have to file every weekend. Everybody roams around Kottayam looking for big, banner-headline demanding stories, and finally ends up doing things like, well, elephant-shit.
And (oh crap) except for the preceding paragraph, every para in this passage looks like under 30 words. That keep-it-under-30 law of Fuchs (oh, how I love his name) is getting to me.
But why I wrote this is because: 1) I am free here to completely screw up his syntax rules, 2) I can call him names (I called him names, pandu), and 3) It would give me at least some pleasure of putting together words without somebody looking over my shoulder, and....
The heck with that, I am stopping. I don't need to satisfy you, reader. I am writing for me.
Oh, by the way, I feel like reading Papillon.
That was as usual Navin and his writings. He and his world of thoughts. But vatever, its fun vat u write. Hehehe. Keep on writing till you get bored of it
ReplyDeleteadipoli daaa i like u r open mind and also the way of approch.hey man u write about 'before coming here'. write somthing about 'after coming here'too okkkkk .he he he jai mascom jai k.t.o he he he
ReplyDeleteI surely write that joe.... for now, im thinking of something to write about our batchmates. Hope that'll increase the traffic to this site... ;-)
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