Interviewing P. Sainath

It was one of those days when you think nothing special will happen. I was sitting in my room when I saw a mail from a professor.

“Dear Hriday, P. Sainath will be in the University. Could you come up with a list of questions to interview him?”

My jaw dropped.

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P. Sainath has been a crusader in print media, and a legend in journalistic circles. He heads the Rural Affairs section of The Hindu, and you might not believe this, but before him, not a single paper even carried a page on Rural Affairs. His book ‘Everybody Loves a Good Drought‘ won the Pulitzer Prize and with the money he has set up an organisation that encourages journalism among rural youth. He spends about 300 days a year in rural areas, and you won’t see him on television channels on news panels.

I was excited.

I started preparing my list of questions a few days in advance.

I had only seen a few of his interviews on YouTube, and they were all either speeches he was giving at some event, or interviews to people who were probably recording through their mobile phones.

And I noticed he wasn’t the most curt of people. He would randomly throw in words like ‘bullshit’ and ‘fuck’. This was going to be fun!

Now, I have watched interviews and news shows since I was in my Primary School. Since the TV is among the least democratic places at any Indian home, I had no option but to watch news interviews throughout my childhood.

Karan Thapar’s interview of Kapil Dev (which I wrote about here) has remained etched in my mind. It was when I first noticed how much power the interviewer wields over the interview. Arnab Goswami used to fascinate me for a few years, but then I saw him interview Bal Thackeray once, and the way he fell flat and licked his feet like a pussy, made me cringe.

I thought about it a lot. What sort of an interview was I going to conduct?

I didn’t want Sainath to think of the interview as just some random college interview that had some ‘safe’ questions.

Now, let’s talk about the scenario.

It was 2011. India had won the World Cup a few months back. Weeks later, Anna Hazare had started his campaign, and the nation was up in arms. Facebook was full of posts and pictures called ‘I am Anna’, and a few of my classmates unfriended each other on FB because they didn’t agree on Anna’s stance.

I had seen a few interviews of Sainath where he had spoken about how Anna’s recommendation of a Lokpal was screwed, as only the elite could be a member of the Lokpal committee. He meticulously pointed out that none of the members could be democratically elected.

I had a starting point.

Another of Sainath’s pet peeves is the way media functions in the country. He loves to give the example of the India Fashion Week, where 500 journalists covered an event where clothes that were worn by 1% of the country were displayed. At the same time, the number of journalists who cover the farmer suicides in Vidarbha is a pittance.

As a media student, I had my second question.

Upon further digging, I found that on one hand Sainath was proud that the media was partly responsible for starting the anti-corruption movement (something that he had been talking about for years). At the same time, he was angered by how the entire movement had become an event on Facebook, with nepotism and jingoism overtaking logic.

I had found my line of fire !

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I sent my questions to the department and apart from a few changes, the list was okayed.

I was to conduct the interview with another classmate, and I had to remind myself that this was not a class debate, and I couldn’t simply stand up and shoot off my opinion. I had to wait and listen, and then ask questions when the person was done.

I read up on how to be a good interviewer. I saw some interviews of my favourite guys – Thapar, John Lipton, Stephen Fry. I imagined how the interview would happen, playing it over and over in my head.

I had long hair back then, and much against my wishes I got them cut. Feeling a bit like Samson without his locks, I stood in front of whatever mirrors were left in our hostel toilets, and practiced my expressions. I put on my pedophile glasses and a new kurta.

You could say, I was suitably prepared.

After his address at the University’s auditorium, Sainath walked into the department.

 

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The interview began slowly, like the first few overs of a Test match.

I bowled a few outside off, and Sainath looked at them carefully, and safely blocked them with a straight bat.

I remember thinking about this analogy. That I was a fast bowler, and if I bowled too safe, I would only get cover drives. I was looking for the lofted six over long on. As I said, I was on my own trip!

The questions got a bit riskier.

I had attended his address, and I tweaked the questions a little bit.

“You had spoken about Gandhi being a prolific journalist. Do you think he would have approved of the Anna campaign that’s going on right now?”

Now, I should admit there is no point to such questions, really. It’s a hypothetical question, and no one would really know for sure. But such questions make for ‘quote-worthy’ replies, and I persisted.

I saw him flinch, and turn away. He sounded a bit agitated. Ha!

As the interview progressed, he got more and more animated.

The topics then moved on to the media, and why the media doesn’t cover news about rural affairs. He had spoken about this a lot, but I thought that for a media college, it had a lot of relevance.

That did it!

He flew into top gear. He spoke about assumed target audiences. About the problem of ‘Paid News’ that plagued every paper in the country. He spoke about the corruption of the Rajas and Kalmadis, and how the lesser reported incidents – the ones that could actually make or break a poor man’s life – were of equal importance.

He spoke about the exalted Liberalisation measures. Of how it might not be as haloed as it is made out to be.

After a point, it stopped being about me vs. him.

He spoke clearly – not once rushing his words, or looking away. He looked straight at me when he talked, and stressed on the words he wanted to stress. Not once did he treat me like some chutiya college interviewer, he never smiled at my questions, or dismissed them away as trivial.

Amidst the lights and the cameras, it somehow felt good. It felt good that he had taken me seriously. Felt good that I had his interest throughout the interview.

The next few questions flew by in an instant, and by the end of the interview, I felt foolish about wanting to spike him.

I thanked him for the interview, and we stood up. He was polite, shook hands, and spoke to the professor.

I stood there, genuinely pleased with myself.

 

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After he left, I walked into the studio room, and I saw everyone sitting silently, some with their hands on their heads. I asked them what happened.

They had forgotten to record the sound for the interview.

Not a word from the 30 minute interview had been captured.

I don’t remember if I felt shattered or angry. I just walked out.

I don’t normally tell people that I had once interviewed Sainath. When they ask me for proof, I have nothing to show.

It must still be lying around somewhere, that interview. If you walk into the Communication department at the University of Hyderabad, you might find it in the archives. A video where the people are talking furiously, nodding vigorously – but no sound escapes their mouth.

It’s true what they say. Truth is often stranger than fiction.

An Ode to the Buffalo

When I woke up, I realised I was going to be late. I rushed to the bathroom, to the horrible stench of someone saving water for the planet, and another guy singing in the shower. Since my room was at the end of the corridor, the sun barged into my room and onto my face in the morning, my natural, four billion year old alarm clock.

Breakfast was over in the mess, and the day had all the makings of a disaster. I quickly rolled a joint and smoked it, as the hostel began to get deserted. I ran through the empty corridors to the main road, to wait for a bus or ask for a lift.

I was running to the square, when I found, standing right in front of me, a buffalo.

It was doing nothing. Just standing in the middle of the road, and staring at me.

That was when I first felt the pangs of envy towards buffaloes.

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Buffaloes lead the coolest lives.

The buffaloes in the university step out around ten o clock, stroll in a line towards a lake called Buffalo Lake and sit in the lake all day.

I wonder what they do there. Do they worry about their future? Think about how they are going to arrange for food, or what to do during the winters?

They just sit there in the lakes, silently. The sun gets harsher, and they sink further into the cool water, merging into the stillness of the lake.

When the sun has set, they step out. There are cranes waiting to peck at them and take off the dirt from their bodies. They slowly head back to their homes.

So when I was in front of it, I wondered if the buffalo was thinking, “Look at them run about mindlessly. The most evolved species on the planet. Ha!”

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If cows are revered as the Holy Mother, the buffalo is the chilled out aunt who never asks about your marks. Buffaloes have no pressures to live up to.

They are not mentioned in mythology, or moral stories, have not been elevated to the stature of goddesses, and hence, aren’t worshipped. So they eat the same stuff, give the same milk, but don’t have to go through the bull shit of poojas and customs.

Another remarkable fact is the way buffaloes behave.

Cows are not like that. Sometimes they are calm and peaceful, but at other times, they are moody. Same with the bulls too. Years and years spent with Shiva hasn’t yet taught them to chill out.

Buffaloes? They are Rastafarians, them lot. Drifting along in a dream state between reality and consciousness, buffaloes give the phrase ‘chilling out’ a different meaning altogether. You will never see an aggressive buffalo in the history of mankind. Except of course, Mahishasura, the Buffalo Demon who was killed by Durga, bringing disrepute to his otherwise noble and affable brethren.

Ever seen a buffalo stuck in the middle of the road? You can honk, scream, yell, or throw water. The buffalo is not going to budge.

For, buffaloes, you see, are an evolved lot.

They realise that all this going on time to please someone is all useless. In the long run, what matters is what you enjoy doing.

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I looked at my watch; it was 10.30.

As I stared at its face, I saw that the buffalo knew. It understood.

“Fuck it,” I said, “I am rolling another.”

I walked to the rocks nearby, sat down, took out my cigarettes, and plugged in my headphones…

Gaylords

It’s said that in the days of kings and mafia warlords, the barber was appointed after careful scrutiny. Understandable, considering that the barber was the only person who was allowed to hold a knife to the king’s neck. The barbers were the most trustworthy and skilled persons.

I’m afraid I can’t say the same about the barbers I’ve met in my life. I’ve met them all – from the old ones to the new, from the modern ones to the ones who sit under a tree with an umbrella and a mirror. And I’ve never had good luck with them. Not once.

Since my ‘Cap Style’ days, to my ‘Spikes’ days, to the dark and tragic ‘Tere Naam’ days, my hair has been subjected to numerous experiments, and I was always on the losing side.

So frustrated was I with barbers that I had stopped shaving or getting a haircut for a few months. Then, a few weeks back, Mr. P. Sainath was to come down to our department and I was to interview him. Lest he should think I was a suicide bomber, I was politely asked to shave and get a haircut.

In our campus, there is a saloon where students are entitled to hair cuts at subsidised rates. Now, there is a reason why Habib’s charges 500 bucks and our campus saloon wala charges 20 rupees. The equipment used is much simpler here – the razor looks like it was invented a week after man invented the wheel. Hygiene is not top priority either, and for the finicky ones, a blade is split in half and inserted into the blade, which will be used to scrape off hair from the sides.

So anyway I had half an hour in hand, and I quickly explained to the anna sitting that I wanted a haircut urgently. This is one aspect of getting a haircut that I am yet to master – giving instructions. Barbers are creative guys, and careful instructions will ensure you don’t look like the reigning mass hero of the time.

“Cut the sides, leave some hair in the front”, I said.

Since the two main barbers were busy, I was sent to the third guy. This guy was a lot younger, and looked like an apprentice. He made me sit on the chair, and covered me with the white shawl. He took off my specs, and placed them on the table in front. Now, this is the second reason why my haircuts are always screwed up.

Remember the Alif Laila stories where the evil Vizar’s life was in a parrot? My vision, similarly, is in my specs. Once you take them off, I am pretty much at the mercy of the barber.

The young guy sprayed some water on my hair, and began talking. He told me that he always wanted to have long hair, but his grandfather wouldn’t let him. He told me that he had let his hair grow long thrice, and all the three times his grandfather had threatened to chop them off while he was sleeping.

“Hair style hona toh Allu Arjun jaisa hona, bhaiyya”

Lesson 1: Never go to a barber who has film aspirations.

Since I was in a hurry, I didn’t respond to any of his questions. The guy had all the time in the world to do his thing. Behind me, there was a TV, in which there was a film playing. Nagarjuna had this hot secretary called Anu and she was really hard working and stuff. This guy was watching the movie, and smiling when the jokes came on, and humming when the songs came on, and generally concentrating more on the film than on my hair.

Lesson 2: Never go to a barber who has film aspirations, and is watching a film while cutting your hair.

I kept looking at my watch, and he at the TV. After about fifteen minutes, he took out the blade and asked me if he could scrape off the edges. Now, I am no mafia don, but I am not very comfortable with the scraping off bit. I asked him to skip that procedure. He cut off a little of my hair, and left some hair on the top.

Proudly, he took off the shawl, as if he was unveiling the Mona Lisa. I immediately reached for my specs, and looked at the mirror, and my heart sank. It was another bad haircut.

Now, my head looks strangely rectangular and stretched. There is no hair on the sides, and some hair right on top of my head. To add to the misery, since I was in a hurry, the guy forgot to cut any hair on the back, which has led to tufts of hair on the back of my head. The kind last seen on Anil Kapoor in the early 90s, and in Mahabharat.

As I walked out of the saloon, I remembered that I had forgotten a vital fact.

Lesson 3: Never go to a barber who has film aspirations, is watching a film while cutting your hair, and works in a saloon called ‘Gaylords’.

So here I am, after years of bitching about barbers, still walking around with a lousy haircut, and while people come up to me and smile, I don’t know if they are friends, or merely amused by my stupid hairstyle.

You know all these wise people who have these smart quotations to their name – like Plato, Aristotle, the Buddha, Christ, Confucius, Socrates, etc?

They all either had long flowing hair, or were completely bald. They forgot one key fact: True contentment lies in finding the right barber. I am still in pursuit.

Bye, cycle. My cycle..

I was in the third standard, and selections for the Annual Sports and Cultural Meet were going on. There were rumours that there were going to be brand new cycles for a cycle drill. The bikes were BSA Mongoose, sleek and quick. Practice meant riding the cycle for hours a day. It was great fun. Not for me, of course.

I was in a stupid drill called ‘Horse and Stars’, because I didn’t know how to cycle. This innovative drill involved running around in formations with a stick-horse in between my legs, and huge, golden stars pasted on each of my palms. It was humiliating to say the least.

I finally learnt to ride a bicycle pretty late – around my 5th standard. It was a maroon BSA Ladybird that belonged to my sister. Though the cycle must have weighed a total of 15 kilos, it was everything for me. I first learnt to ride it ‘half-pedal’, and then ‘full-pedal’, and then while sitting on the seat. I still remember the feeling when I was convinced I could ride it. The ecstatic feeling of balancing on your own wheels.

Soon, it became a mad obsession. I would do the rounds of the colony, on my BSA Ladybird, in an imaginary world of my own. Sometimes I was Agniputra Abhay with the magical bike, other times I was a hero being chased by goons, and on some romantic evenings, I’d imagine I was carrying a senior from school on the carriage behind – I would ride slowly then. My first accident with a cycle happened soon after.

It was in the afternoon, and I was on the road near a chaurasta. I was imagining that it was the last ball of a cricket match, and Ajay Jadeja and Robin Singh are in the crease, and they have to steal a quick single. So lost was I in the imaginary match, that I failed to see the vehicles in front of me. Not one, but two of them. So I ended up bending the rims of both the wheels, one by a scooter, and another by a bike.

Now, Ladybirds are no Royal Enfields. They are just Domestic Dandies. Both the rims having bent in the nail-biting finish to the match, I had to part-drag, part-carry the cycle back home. I was welcomed with the choicest abuses, and Ladybird was caged in the house. That was probably the last time I rode that cycle.I had never had a bicycle since.

Now the thing is that the University of Hyderabad’s campus is one fucking huge campus. When I first joined it, I made decisions to jog to the college in the mornings, and jog back after classes. All good, except that the distance is seven bloody kilometers. Aptly titled J&K hostels, they are in the other end of the campus. If you do not have a bike, you have to have a bicycle. Or make sad faces and wait for lifts, hoping someone will drop you somewhere on the way.

Keeping these factors in mind, I decided to buy a bicycle. I went to this shop, suspiciously named ‘Peddlars’ Point’, and asked him for bicycles. He showed me a few. From the Postman wala Atlas to the modern snazzy ones. I finally boiled down on one. It was a cool silver Hercules Ultima DX 6 gear bicycle. I remember riding back to the room, with the same feeling of ecstacy that came with the ladybird. On the way back, I remember re-committing myself towards a fitter life, and that this was a beginning for new things to come.

They say, you can take the horse to the river, but you can’t make it drink water. Similarly, you can buy yourself a bicycle, but you cannot stop being a lazy bastard. So I would wake up, realise there were 15 minutes left for class, and rush to Vamshi’s room below, and go on his scooter.

I did use the cycle once in a while, like the time when KSS came over one evening. There was a film screening at the auditorium and we planned to go there. We had also planned to have some rum, and passed out with flying colours. Also, the film was ‘Poison’, and so there were, the two of us. Drunk and horny, and riding on a bicycle to the auditorium.

You would have seen gruesome bike accidents on AXN or youtube, ours was the lamest accident ever. Just two drunk guys, riding, and toppling over. While we got up, and dusted and laughed about it, my cycle was hardly amused. The handlebar turned upside down, the bell stopped ringing, and random loose screws resulted in me making a chhang-chhang sound wherever I went.

There is something about us human beings, imperfections make our hearts grow fonder. I repaired my cycle, and started spending more time with it. I took it to college, to the Sports Complex, and for other chores. One day, I left it near the small gate, properly locked, about thirty feet from the security post. The next morning, my cycle was missing.

I was sad that I had not used it enough. That I had not been a good owner to the cycle, and that I had expected even an iota of alertness and brains in the security guards. I looked for it for days, in secret couple hangouts, dumpyards, and obscure parking spots, but I never found it.

As a final desperate gesture, I put up the following poster at different spots around the university.

I got some appreciation, some criticism, and an SMS telling me that the University was not my father’s, to use the f word. But I didn’t get my cycle.

So, dear cycle. If you haven’t been dismantled and sold in parts at the Chor Bazaar in Dhoolpet already, I hope you are good.

I hope your new owner is treating you well. And I hope you are spicing up his life too, with the little surprises you used to spring on me.

Like making a quick turn in front of a hot chick, and suddenly realising the brake is not working. Or pedalling vigorously uphill, only to have the chain snap.

Hope you’re giving him the real pleasure of riding a cycle.