May Day Madness

Good Afternoon, Chennai!

My career as a journalist began and ended in 1968—or so I thought—when I briefly sparkled as the Indian Express’s star apprentice subeditor, not  counting my second innings as editor of Sruti, a performing arts monthly, from 2006 to 2018. In between, I wrote quite a bit as a freelancer, until I unexpectedly re-entered the newsroom in 1992, when I joined the editorial team of an eveninger I shall call Chennai Afternoon, for reasons of self protection from the libel laws of the country. I do not wish to be slapped with defamation charges for merely having a good laugh over incidents that occurred nearly three decades ago.

I had been a struggling entrepreneur for some four years when, heeding my father’s advice, I took the momentous decision to shut shop and try to find employment all over again. That is when my wife Gowri, then a reporter in The Hindu, alerted me to the possibility of Afternoon absorbing me after she spoke to its editor Mr Swamy (name changed), who had in his heyday helmed a famous national weekly, and, now 72, agreed not only to lend his name to the fledgling tabloid, but actually came on board to run it hands on. With my morale rendered rather low by the harsh challenges of business, I entered the Afternoon office with trepidation one morning, but the distinguished looking Mr Swamy made me feel comfortable with his warm welcome. I felt encouraged by the even warmer greeting from Mr R Ramachandran, a recent retiree from The Hindu, and now the senior deputy editor at the evening daily. I had met him earlier at the office of Sruti, where he had been part of a think tank the editor Pattabhi Raman had enlisted, and we had got on very well, for all that he was perhaps twenty years my senior. Another veteran in the Afternoon was Mr Neelkant, who had decades of experience as a Bombay-based journalist.  A taciturn man, Neelkant was a good foil to the more gregarious RRC—as Ramachandran was widely known. 

Neelkant actually had a wicked sense of humour, which he carefully hid most of the time under his stern exterior. Krithika, the most experienced and capable among the youngsters, carried her workload as news editor efficiently and cheerfully. A smart editor at the desk, she was a good manager of people as well. The tabloid and its Tamil twin were owned by a man well connected politically and an avowed loyalist of the ruling party  and the chief minister of Tamil Nadu. In the Afternoon office he was known as 'MD' or 'MD Saar'. This list more or less completes the dramatis personae of the story that follows.   

Everything was hunky dory for a few months, work starting at six am or thereabouts. Tea, samosas and bun maska from a nearby "Irani" cafe run by Malayalis helped a voracious young team tackle the hunger pangs while feverishly working to put the paper to bed early in the afternoon. Though the drama of the front page consisted of a daily countdown leading to the once-in-12-years spectacle of the Mahamaham at Kumbakonam climaxing in thousands of devotees taking a holy dip in the river Kaveri led by the charismatic chief minister of the state, I was in luck, responsible as I was as sports editor for the coverage of  less momentous happenings elsewhere--the 1992 Cricket World Cup in Australia and New Zealand.

It was the time the child prodigy Sachin Tendulkar was coming of age; of South Africa's tragic exit from the tournament done in by a cruel rain rule; of innovative captaincy by Martin Crowe who transformed Mark Greatbatch into a cult hero let loose on unsuspecting opposition new ball attacks and who created other sensations like opening the bowling with Dipak Patel, the off spinner. Crowe's batting too went smoothly into top gear and New Zealand were soon tournament favourites.  We all know how after a dream run, New Zealand went down in the semifinals. If veterans Imran Khan and Javed Miandad and young tyro Inzamam-ul-Haq did it with the bat for Pakistan, Wasim Akram was magical with his left arm pace and swing, as Pakistan cruised to their first World Cup after a rather late rally.

Though India flattered to deceive, Tendulkar won the hearts of fans and experts with his breathtaking batting. To me, it was a case of unabashed adoration of this fearless kid whose flashing blade and boyish demeanour dazzled enough to bring the fan in me to the fore, journalistic detachment be damned. Sachin aura about him, one of my headlines shamelessly punned (my ardour was to dim somewhat in the years that followed: he was to become arguably the best batsman in the world, and I watched many of his great knocks, yet respect and admiration replaced my early romance with his batting, interspersed with occasional disappointment with the apparent diminution of joie de vivre in his approach to the game in his mature years.

Cricket on the Brain was the title of a very readable 1960s book by Bernard Hollowood, a 'minor' county cricketer and much else, and I am reminded of it now by my own obsession with the game that has caused this huge digression from my main story--that of our Indian summer at the Chennai Afternoon, which came to an abrupt end on 1st May 1992, a holiday dedicated to labour. I had a mild fever and chose to relax at home rather than join my colleagues at Narada Gana Sabha, Alwarpet, and attend the inauguration of a weeklong theatre festival of Tamil plays, now an annual feature. The indefatigable RRC, obviously more energetic than me, and enjoying the outing with his team at the event, called me on the phone and persuaded me to make my way to the sabha. I reluctantly tore myself away from a cosy family bonding session and reached the venue in about half an hour. 

Though the chief guest of the morning was yet to arrive, and the inauguration was yet to start, there was high drama in the aisles. Even as I entered the hall, RRC was leading a walkout of the entire Afternoon editorial team in protest against some disrespect shown to Mr and Mrs Neelkanth by the organisers of the festival. "Vaanga Ram pogalam! Intha pasangaluku mariyadaiye illai. They have insulted Mr Neelkanth and his wife." The volunteers had asked the senior couple to vacate their seats which they, the volunteers, claimed were reserved for 'Mrs MD'. It  was an extremely hot day, and the Neelkanths, still recovering from the exertions of a long autorickshaw ride, were slow to respond.  Panic stricken by the prospect of Mrs MD arriving with her seats still occupied, the ushers perhaps tried to hustle the old couple into some nifty footwork, unfortunately catching the eagle eye of our team leader who sprang into action, revelling in the situation that reminded him of his early trade union days, in the best manner of a sprightly Uncle Fred in the springtime.  

Soon all of us trooped out like schoolchildren delighting in an unexpected holiday courtesy the expiry of the school correspondent or some such worthy. We reassembled in a coffee shop across the road (now an ice cream joint) again like schoolkids on a picnic. An uproarious time was had by all, with nervous giggles and excited laughter giving the staid old cafe the appearance of a boisterous pub. In the midst of all the drama, the Neelkanths quietly slipped away, with our senior colleague brushing aside our apologies with a near wink and half smile, the most animated I had seen him so far. "I am glad I have an excuse for going home in time for lunch and siesta," he declared almost gleefully.

A most exciting week followed at the office. The editor called us all to his room on the morrow and asked us to apologise to the MD for our 'insubordination' at NGS. While the younger lot stayed silent, all the villains I named earlier laughed our heads off. Swamy was really caught between the devil and the deep sea. He did not want to lose face before fellow journalists, while MD Saar seemed to have him in an iron grip from which he could not extricate himself. The meeting ended on a stalemate of sorts, with Swamy apparently moved by Lord Ickenham's impassioned efforts to reawaken his, Swamy's, pretensions to journalistic integrity. He left the decision to us, but appealed to us to fall in line and save the day for the paper. He also promised to convince MD Saar that the incident had nothing to do with the management or staff of Afternoon, as it occurred on a holiday at a public function, and at any rate, we did not recognise 'Mrs MD' as a power centre.

Unfortunately, Swamy displayed a total lack of backbone in the whole affair, like Lord Emsworth before his formidable sister Lady Constance Keeble, if I may be forgiven yet another Wodehousian analogy. So it turned out that after a week of vacillation, the editor gave us an ultimatum Apologise or face the consequences. RRC, Neelkanth, Krithika and I stood steadfast in our resolve, while the rest of the team capitulated under threat of dismissal.

What followed was a classic in official correspondence, quite easily the most hilarious letter of "separation" in history. The one addressed to me read somewhat as follows.

Dear Mr Ramnarayan, it has been a pleasure and privilege to have you work for Chennai Afternoon. Your management of the sports page and your articles on music were outstanding, and you wrote some brilliant editorials when asked to do so. Under the prevailing situation and with you refusing to explain your recent conduct satisfactorily, I am constrained to dismiss you from service with immediate effect. I wish you good health and success in all your endeavours.        

As I was preparing to leave the office, never to return, RRC stopped me saying, "Let's go and say goodbye to the old man," with a dangerous twinkle in his eye that forewarned me of a spectacular Uncle Fred moment. I tried my best to dissuade him, for I didn't want to set my eyes on a man for whom I had lost all respect, even if I was prepared to take the sympathetic view that he was to be pitied rather than censured. Uncle Fred was however not be deterred, and I followed him meekly into the boss's den like nephew Pongo Twistleton, imagining the worst possible scenario to unfold  inside. Would some oversized underling take matters into his own hands and rearrange our features?

A slightly built man with a pleasant countenance,  RRC wore the most beatific smile as we entered the room and sat down without waiting to be invited to do so. He looked the editor straight in his eye and said, 'Thank you very much for your lovely letter. I must say it is very well composed? Did you get it drafted by your assistants or write it yourself? Full marks, either way.." 

RRC's smile was getting more and more angelic even as Swamy, a fair complexioned man. went redder and redder in the face. 'Mr Swamy, you are a disgrace, an insult to the profession," beamed RRC, "I am ashamed to have been your colleague. I wish you well but I hope our paths never cross again."

As we came out, RRC looked pleased with himself, a good day's work done. I struggled to control  an outburst of laughter that threatened to explode. 

It had been a perfect morning.