Urdu journalists still wallow in misery

During my happy days, while I was dozing off in the chill of the night under a warm quilt, a stupid idea crept into my mind. I dreamed of shaking the world with my powerful pen and bringing revolution in society. So, I announced my decision of becoming a journalist.

Hearing the sad news, all my family members gathered in a big hall and had a brain storming session with me. While my successful brothers and father were angry with me, my mother was in tears as if I had decided to commit suicide.

But I paid no heed to their repeated request of giving up the outlandish idea as I was hell-bent on giving the message of change to the reluctant world. To make matters worse, I joined an Urdu newspaper.

My pen bled and bled but it could not cause a ripple. The world that I had dreamed of shaking through my powerful writing budged not even an inch. But it did happen that its powerful hands crushed me to pulp. Now, my condition is like a donkey who is stuck in a quagmire and struggling to come out of it. The editor does not allow me to survive and the wily accountant does not let me die as in the end of the month he gives me enough amount that I can somehow manage to breathe for a month.

During the past couple of decades there has been a sea change in the condition of my fellow journalists of other language newspapers and TV channels, and they are enjoying all the comforts of life that other professionals have. In contrast, I am still there where I was some 20 years ago. I still wait for the crammed bus to reach my office as I did some two decades ago though the same buses have become more crowded and my pocket has become lighter.

Before becoming a journalist, I had a dream that like other scribes I would also have a big car and in big capital letters the word 'PRESS' would be engraved on it and I would roam about showing off my professional 'ishtyle' and would be welcomed with awe and respect everywhere.

But now, my condition is such that after the day-long hard work when I come back to home my beautiful wife with an album of unfulfilled dreams in her dreamy eyes welcomes me with shouting. To escape her nagging when I bolt out, to get their dues the panwallahs, the grocers, the vegetable sellers----all chase me unless I board a running bus to save my skin.

One day, feeling pity on me, I warned the manager of my office. I said, "Enough is enough. Raise my salary otherwise I am resigning." The manager who was very fond of my writing (as I always use expensive pens), barged into the owner's room huffing and puffing. " Saab he is going. He says, increase the salary or he is resigning," he said.

Paying no attention to the manager's words, the owner took a big drag of his cigar and exhaled a big cloud of smoke and watched it being absorbed by the air conditioner. Then he turned to the manager and said poetically:

"Aur le aiyenge Bihar se agar chhod gaya Teri Dilli se mera Bihar bahut sasta hai"

(I will bring more (such people) from Bihar if he leaves as Bihar is much cheaper than Delhi.)

Ironically, it is not only my story. Most of the Urdu newspaper journalists find it just impossible to make both ends meet.

Their life becomes a never-ending journey of the Indian train that derails so often. They just wait and wait to catch a glimpse of the light at the end of the endless dark tunnel of their life. And finally, melancholy envelops them and they end up repenting their folly of becoming a journalist.

Privy to my condition, there lived an Urdu newspaper critic in my neighbourhood, who had lost his shirts, pants and also his hair at very early stage of his career. One day, out of curiosity, running his hand on my head (as if he were assessing how much time it would take to reach his condition), he said, "The ghetto mentality of Muslims is responsible for the pitiable condition of Urdu journalists in India."

I knew he won't stop, so I pretended to be listening to his sonorous speech with rapt attention. He went on," Be it a meat shop or a hotel, mosque or any educational institute or welfare organisation or even a newspaper organisation, everywhere workers are exploited to the hilt. The owners and responsible persons only want to pocket the profit and leave their workers to sweat, he said.

Perhaps, he was reminiscing his own days that's why his hand was now on his head. His voice was echoing. Counting the remaining strands of his hair he said in painful tone," Most of the Urdu newspaper owners leave their journalists in such a condition that they can neither die nor live a healthy life."

One may believe his words, but what about those journalists who are working with the Urdu newspaper, owned by a renowned finance company of the country that sponsored the Indian cricket team for many decades and also infused crores of rupees into the coffin of Indian hockey? They would have been wallowing in lakhs and enjoying all the luxuries that their fellow journalists of other language publications of the same company have? But again, the same story is repeated here.

When the news of launching of new editions of the said Urdu newspaper from different cities of the country was doing rounds, the hopeless eyes of an army of Urdu journalists twinkled with hope and their dry mouths watered by only imagining that they would also wolf down the piping hot Murgh Mussalam and Mutton Biriyani.

And don't ask what happened when the juicy news went down the mouth! The hopeful journalists started having loose motions as their stomach had forgotten their job of digestion and were rejoicing over the better days to come when they would also have fatty and crunchy items as others do.

After a long wait, finally, the day of interview for the city edition came. The hopefuls would enter the swanky boardroom and return disappointed. So many talented and experienced candidates came but the so-called editor with long mane only asked them, "What is your minimum expectation? In how less can you work with us?"

In the company where even a peon lives a respectable life, the poor journalists were told," Aap ko saat hazar hi milen ge. Kam karna ho to karo ham ko Bihar se bahut mil jainge jo ki is se kam par kam karne ke liye razi ho jain ge."(You will get only 7000 rupees. If you are ready to work, most welcome.

Otherwise we can get a lot of people like you from Bihar who will be ready work for less than that.") Those who protested and repeatedly mentioned their vast experience and laid the piles of their by-line articles before the editor, were promised to be given eight thousand rupees. When the question of the salary of journalists from smaller cities came it could not exceed three or four thousand rupees.

Showing its magnanimity, the company that claim to be the Sahara (sustainer) of millions of families, had got published the names of candidates in newspapers. Therefore, some of the wretched journalists, seeing the door of their own newspapers closed, had no option but to work with the only national Urdu newspaper of the country.

But very soon they realised that their position in the company was like that of an uninvited guest. They were denied all the facilities that even a petty worker of the company has. Fed up with their pitiable condition and seeing no change even after working for several years, the unfortunate lot of journalists approached the printer and publisher, who also happened to be the zonal manager of the company, to pour out their woes before him."Parnam," all said in unison. Those who had mistakenly blurted 'Assalam Alaikum' corrected themselves by repeating 'Parnam' three times.

Grabbing the best opportunity ( by force), the so called printer, publisher and zonal manager, who had the drunken confidence of being a poet better than greats like Ghalib and Mir, attacked the visitors with his absurd and disjointed poetry.

And when the ears of the visitors protested," Enough is enough! We cannot bear it anymore," one of them forcefully tried to attract his attention to tell the objective of their visit, the poet picked up a book from the shelf. First he started kissing it (as if it were some holy book) and when he was tired of kissing, he said," Before your visit, I was reading this book. In this book, our boss has said, 'love your company and expand its work and wealth' I expect the same from you."

When one old man from the group whimpered seeking increase their salary, the so-called poet became serious and said, "The income of the company is spent in different segments. Out of it, a certain amount is splurge on social service like pension to the old-age, widows etc. The Urdu newspaper, in which you people work, is also run on the same alms. Now you can imagine how much you should be given!"