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Mainstream, VOL LI, No 28, June 29, 2013

Journalism’s Finest Hour

Monday 1 July 2013, by T J S George

#socialtags

Remembering departed polestars like Nikhil Chakravartty is not pat of the rather tiresome old-is-gold syndrome. Much of the new is also gold—the net that puts knowledge at one’s fingertip, the mobile that turns one’s pocket into an office, the incredible universe of apps. Yet we need to cherish the old because it provides what technology still cannot: a sense of values without which humans lose their humanity. The age of Nikhil Chakravartty—and of Frank Moraes and Chalapathi Rao, of Shamlal and V.K. Narasimhan, of N.J. Nanporia and S. Mulgaokar—was notable for the professional proprieties that guided journalism. That distinction stands out in sharper relief against today’s twin realities: The defeat of journalism by marketing, and the craving among journalists for personal fame and fortune.

Moraes unashamedly aligned himself with the “American lobby” which was how the forces opposed to Nehruvian socialism were known then. But he did so out of conviction and therefore lost none of the respect of those he criticised editorially. The famous Open House he ran in his apartment attracted noted Socialists and the occasional card-carrying Communist as well. Chalapathi Rao never used his closeness to Jawaharlal Nehru for personal gain. Drawing meagre salaries, he stuck with the poorly managed, cash-strapped National Herald until a post-Nehru factotum evicted him in a show of boorish ego. Shamlal was the country’s most authoritative voice in the realm of books. Such was the veneration he commanded that The Times of India requested him to stay on despite his retirement in 1978. But such was his adherence to principles that, when the paper switched to policies he considered improper, he severed all connections with it in 1994 and shifted his landmark column Life and Letters to The Telegraph in Calcutta. Narasimhan, erudite an affable, became an overnight hero when he devised ways to fight the Emergency while most other journalists chose to crawl. Nanporia’s reticent nature concealed his unmatched knowledge of oriental antiques, but when occasions arose to defend journalism from commerce, he was not found wanting. Mulgaokar, the ultimate technician of print journalism, was often a partner and sometimes the inspiration of Ramnath Goenka’s epic battles on behalf of the press.

They were a bunch of God’s good men and they were by no means alone. Lined up alongside were armies of assistant editors, news editors, sub-editors and reporters, all proud of their profession and finding their lives’ fulfilment when they wrote a comprehensive report, or embellished a story with a telling headline, or composed an editorial that influenced public opinion. There were of course a black sheep here and a deviant there who would now cash in on his ties with, say, Sanjay Gandhi and his family, and now simply use his clout to partake of the Good Life. But they were exceptions. By and large pre-Emergency India was privileged ground where values mattered and journalism found its finest hour.

It did not take Nikhil Chakravartty long to discover his calling. As an Oxford graduate, the options before him were both numerous and glamorous. But he was a man of ideals. Ideals and intellectual curiosity. His interests ranged over history and philosophy, science and environment, politics and trade unionism, wealth and poverty. He personified the definition of the ideal journalist as one who knew something about everything and everything about some things. He developed his own style to pursue his interests. His purposefulness, dedication and impartiality quickly became the talk of the town and he emerged as the journalists’ journalist. No one was a more admired role model for other journalists, seniors as well as newcomers, as Nikhil Chakravartty was in his prime.

And no one had wider contacts in a Capital city where journalists counted their contacts in the thousands. Nikhil was a talker, a soft and soothing talker, who conversed with Presidents and Prime Ministers like others talked to their childhood friends. His “morning walks” were famous though not as famous as that of Pothan Joseph in an earlier era. PJ, friend of Gandhi and Jinnah, would set out before 5 in the morning, enjoy coffee and company with a dozen politicians and social bigwigs, take a dip in a favourite swimming pool, then walk and walk again, now calling on loiterers in railway stations, now discussing race horses with wayside drunks until he reached a club or a restaurant, and occasionally his office, where he would seat himself and start brewing his legendary column, Over A Cup of Tea. Nikhil was too genteel to be that colourful, but his walks were just as productive.

A distinguishing feature of Nikhil’s persona was that his contacts cherished his friendship as much as he did theirs. From President K.R. Narayanan to Prime Minister P.V. Narasimha Rao to diplomats and bureaucrats and professors and generals and even “difficult customers” like V.K. Krishna Menon, all looked forward to Nikhil’s visits—and all opened up to him, even Krishna Menon. He instilled in them the confidence that he would keep their confidence and would never ask for anything for himself. Nikhil could have become Indian Ambassador to a country of his choice, or a Governor or Rajya Sabha member. Yet, he did not even accept a Padma award that was offered to him.

To appreciate a man with that kind of mind, we must look at modern stars who revel as surrogates of business houses and as facilitators of lobbyists, who rejoice in turning journalism into a paid proposition and who roll in wealth. These attributes of five-star journalism as well as the increase in newspaper circulations in India when they are falling in the West are seen as benefits of competition. Successive Royal Commissions on the Press in England made the point that competition in fact gave undue advantages to the bigger players. The 1962 Commission specifically said that the economies of scale and larger advertising revenue enabled strong papers to spend more on staff and promotion and thereby increase their sales while weaker papers were forced to spend more—and consequently lose more—in an attempt to stay competitive. The 1962 and 1977 Commissions actually concluded that the process of competition reduced competition. That’s another way of acknowledging that in journalism, nothing is more important than journalism. The Chakravartty Age understood it, and that’s why we need to recall it from time to time for our own good.

A veteran journalist, the author is now with The New Indian Express, Bangalore.

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