Time Out — Ganging up on GOST

“If there’s any batsman who says he isn’t interested in records, don’t believe him. He’s a liar.” Thus spake that perspicacious observer of cricket and commentator on life. Just change it around a bit, Geoff, and you would have found the principal reason for angst amongst your fellow players in your new-found profession journalism. “If there’s any hackperson who says she/he is not interested in `writing’, do not believe her/him. She/he is a liar.”

Now this may appear somewhat puzzling to the uninitiated. What is it that they do, then, they may ask. Who fills up all those columns of newsprint between the ads, they may wonder. The above mentioned hackpersons, of course. Then why does the atmosphere in any press club remind one of Dostoevsky? Why the angst? Because of the inverted comma, silly!

Confused? Nothing could be clearer, one would have thought. In the humble world of hackdom, the inverted comma is a powerful semiotic. It signals the difference between duty and pleasure, between humour and hardship, between darkness and light.

So no-inverted-commas writing is what the said hacks do to put the odd gnawed bone on the table. Writing means attending Rotary Club meetings and chasing chacha Kesri’s midnight confabulations. Writing means getting an eye (and nose!) witness of some noisome sewage pipe disaster and endlessly calling some starlet to get her golden views on Madhavrao Scindia’s sartorial style. In short, dear reader, writing means work.

And `writing’? Aaah! `Writing’ is the use of language with the skill and grace of a ballet dancer. `Writing’ is expressing your innermost emotions and your uppermost thoughts, instead of four paras on the orders of the bureau chief. `Writing’ is never having to see your precious children being slaughtered by some godless sub-editor. `Writing’ is never ever having to work on Sundays, national holidays and Happy New Year and the day after included. `Writing’ is having an 18-inch waistline and a million bucks in the bank. In short, dear reader, `writing’ is everything every writer (no inverted commas) always wanted to do, but is prevented by a mercenary world from doing.

Because, make no mistake, every single hack, be he of howsoever humble scale on the pecking order, nourishes somewhere within that careworn and battered exterior a belief that if only he could get a few days off and if only bills had not mounted so fearsomely and if only misbegotten publishers got rid of their celebrity hang-ups to shell out a decent advance, the world of literature would be worshipping at the feet of a new master.

But then, misbegotten publishers — especially misbegotten firangee publishers — cannot be bothered to put in that extra bit of legwork to serve the trade that has served them so well. A veritable volcano of talent lies waiting to be tapped, but for all the stirring they do, they might as well become news editors.

So press conferences are attended. Book readings are covered, pictures taken. The clan measures its 38-inch waistlines and tots up its balance-less passbook. And gangs up on GOST.