Chandrima Pal

So here I am, writing my first official ‘editorial’ post.

Given that 'blogging' is so much in the air, I could not resist the temptation to write one too. After all, which self-respecting writer worth his or her byline could let go of an opportunity to yell right across cyberspace about the strange ways of the world? Not me!

So here’s talking about the tenuous relationship between writers/journalists/critics and the love of our lives: the stars. THE stars. The STARS!

Let’s face it. We both need each other to survive. Imagine a world where journalists have nothing to write about, no one to bitch about, nobody to take potshots at! How boring. Imagine a world, where stars themselves do their own articles (which they have begun to do with alarming sincerity), write their own reports and do their own interviews. Scary huh?! Well, it has already started.

Bachchan is documenting all his public appearances, Aamir is maintaining a strict control over his media outings, saying all that he has to say in his blog. There are stars I know who call up journalist 'friends' with the line 'Ek accha story de raha hun, daal de!'

Hmm, lets face it, how frequently do reporters actually 'go out' looking for a story? Stories come to us (and I say this at the cost of sounding blasphemous). Officious PR managers call up to mail stories, releases, which star reporters conveniently appropriate as an 'exclusive' with their bylines attached to it. Some stars speak only to people they 'trust'. Now we all know what THAT means.

But let us not digress.

The flavour of the season is Bachchan's blog (which he claims is an honest attempt to make his stand clear) which has turned into a hotbed of politics, bizarre mudslinging (between him and veteran film writers) and must say, is showing a very, very angry and frustrated industry veteran at his vulnerable best. Every word, line, headline, denigrating the actor seems to have haunted him over the years. And every word spoken against him or his craft has stayed. Wow! And so the blog seems to be a perfect platform to set the record right, to put it mildly. Free nation, that's all one can say.

Much has been said and written about this love-hate relationship we share about the people we write about. Allow me to recount a few different incidents here:

Incident One:
A senior journalist friend with a leading national daily was recounting a strange 'encounter' with one of the most commercially successful stars of our times. Dare I take his name? NAH!

It so happened, a crime beat reporter chanced upon a startling piece of information about a staff in the star’s company. This employee happened to be a foreign national working without a work permit. Not only that, he discovered that this person was deported thrice and had some serious allegations against him with the defence ministry. When the supervising editor messaged the star asking for his version, he did not respond. The response came from the owner of the publication: "Can we please take this story off?"
Needless to say, the story never made it to print. Had it happened, we would have created history by creating a new milestone in free, fearless, independent journalism.

Incident Two:
My last meeting with Farah Khan, post Om Shanti Om. She was thrilled with the way critics had responded to her film. I quote, "I was happy critics have finally got what I wanted to say." Farah had messaged all reviewers thanking them for 'reinstating her faith' in their profession.

Incident Three:
Another senior editor, recounted an interview with a 'perfectionist' actor-filmmaker who asked him pointblank, "Give me the name of ONE publication where I cannot put in any story I want, whether in lieu of money or anything else."

And this is not confined to actors alone. Anyone in showbiz, in the limelight, has had this strange, inexplicable relationship with the media.

Many years ago, I had the pleasure and honour of doing the first official exhaustive interview of sitar maestro Pandit Ravi Shankar, after Norah Jones suddenly exploded onto the scene. I remember spending a few hours with the frail master, as he painfully recounted his life, sharing some of his most private (and exclusive) moments and photographs with an ordinary scribe. He was smarting under the relentless and ruthless comparison between his two daughters; Anoushka and Norah, and begged the media to be a little more sensitive to his unusual family dynamics. "I need to set the record straight, I have been trapped in my own image, unfortunately," he had said. "And the image is that of a rock star who is still chasing women." It was strange listening to him talk, in his music hall, with just the dictaphone for company. He needed a platform to speak out, he needed someone who was only too eager to listen in and write about it all. And I just happened to be there.

I came back and did a 'faithful' story for The Telegraph's Graphiti magazine. Quoting the maestro and his wife Sukanya verbatim. My editor added a 'little colour' to it. Was I honest? Yes I was, but I do not know to whom or what.

In my humble opinion, there are two kinds of journalists. Those whom the stars and their PRs call up to give a 'good story', and those who write about how these 'good stories' are planted.

But end of the day, we are all in the business of selling our craft.

Just as the way some stars 'dance' at weddings to 'make ends meet' or pose for mindless commercials 'to pay off debts'.

So let's not waste any more time in this mindless war of words get on with our lives. There are pages to fill, cinema houses to run and taxes to be paid. And oh! Did I mention a film launch party to attend?