The price of being a hack

Every profession has its own hazards. But nothing really matches the hazards that a professional hack has to contend with. The hard physical labour is the least of the problem. But the unearthly hours that one has to keep and the unhealthy habits that one has no choice but to acquire, however, are a different ball game altogether. A natural corollary of the two is a constant fight with the family.
Just one instance of what a journo has to endure will suffice. Early on Saturday morning came the information that the two interlocutors named by the Maoists would hold a press conference at the State Guest House. Having appeared at a live chat on the subject on the issue on a TV news channel at 9.00 am, this columnist had to file a story before going for the press conference. By the time the copy was through, it was 10.45 am. As I began to rush out, my better half (bitter half is perhaps a more appropriate description) started her usual lament about my skipping breakfast. When I said I would eat something outside, she was furious. With very little time to engage in a prolonged argument with wife, I had to settle for a compromise formula – a glass of fruit juice instead of a regular breakfast.
So far, so good. But the important part of the story was in what followed. When I reached State Guest House a couple of minutes past 11 am (thanks to the short argument with his spouse), there was not a soul to be seen. Surprised, I went upstairs and asked one of the interlocutors, who said the press meet had been postponed to 12.30 pm as they were busy preparing the note. Anxious to utilize the intervening time, I rushed to the bank for some urgent transaction and then finished a couple of other chores before ringing up a colleague who had stayed put in the Guest House since morning to find out if the rescheduled press conference had begun. “No yaar, the two Secretaries –Pradeep Jena and Sanrosh Sarangi - are huddled with the two negotiators inside the room. The press conference will start only after they finish their confabulations”, the fiend informed.
By the time I returned to Guest House, it was 1 pm. There were plenty of souls around this time, but all of them were loitering around the campus. There was no sign of either the negotiators or the government officers emerging out of the room. The only development that had taken place was that the Home Secretary had joined in a few minutes back. There was no word on when the talks would end. But returning home was not an option since no journalist worth his pen (or mouse) would want to miss out on such an important event – especially if s/he belongs to the electronic media. So, along with a host of journalists, I too had to hang around the place despite repeated queries from home over the ubiquitous mobile phone (one gets nostalgic thinking about the happy pre-mobile days).
The booms of about 15 television channels remained laid out on the table for nearly two hours before the three Secretaries finally entered the State Guest House lounge at 3 pm. But lo and behold! The ‘press conference’ lasted precisely 60 seconds with the Home Secretary speaking three sentences each in English and Odia and refusing to take any questions. The assembled journos, including me, were made to look foolish. Is this what they had wasted half the day for, we wondered.
Worse was to follow when I reached home. As I was beginning to settle in front of the computer, the ‘bitter half’ almost screamed; “Do you have some sense of proportion? Do you realize that it is nearing 4 and you have not had a grain inside the stomach since morning?” Having realized long ago that discretion is the better part of manly valour on such occasions, I quietly settled on the dining chair for lunch.

[This blog was first published in The Political and Business Daily]