By: Wangkheimayum Bhupendra Singh
The music suddenly died. Someone tip-toed out of the room. A club was raised high. Crack it went. And everything went black.
Funny, some unrelated incidents do make a nice reading. Believe me when I say that. You only have to
put them together in the right perspective albeit not before endless trials of fitting a square peg into a
round hole and enduring patience for figuring out even the minutest pieces of the puzzle.
This is how G Bhabesh Sharma, a former staff and colleague of the Imphal Free Press, reminisces his IFP
days at the start of our conversation. This poor fellow must be mad. It is an instantaneous thought that
crosses my mind when we start talking over … err… the Facebook chat. Later, he did give an assurance
to drop by the IFP office to elaborate further whenever he is in town and I on my part promised him to
buy a cuppa for another round of chat, purely out of not wanting to hurt his sentiments.
“My life was, still is, a puzzle and all events happening around me are pieces of that jigsaw. I am yet to
see that final, big picture,” says Bhabesh, now an Assistant news editor with the Times of India, Jaipur,
when asked to explain where he stands now that he is with a national daily from a local newspaper.
He says a journalist’s job is a thankless one, more so for a deskie. “You have to forget you have a home
or a family and expect only stinkers even for a small mistake. It doesn’t count whether you made the
mistake or not, because, as in-charge, and somewhere down the line, you are always in-charge of
something, you already got hit straight on the face much before the culprit eventually became known or
admitted. I really can’t blame my boss for that as he also got the same treatment from his seniors and
my juniors expect no less blasting from me.
“Moreover, you are in no popularity contest (you will be surprised that most journalists know the
filthiest of slangs more than all the good words put together (exaggerating!). He won’t hesitate to use
them without remorse because the only competition you are taking part is ‘how good your final work is
than your competitors’. In fact, a journalist is a commodity and his salability in the market is by word of
mouth – the more you are being talked about as a stickler for quality and deadline, the more offers you
will get from other companies,” points out Bhabesh, who worked with TOI, Kolkata, from where he went
on to join PTI, Delhi, then back to TOI, Jaipur.
After all, a newspaper not only provides stories about events to readers, but people learn from your
vocab and usage and mock you, particularly your rivals, for factual errors, bloopers, typos and poorly
designed pages.
Imagine the stress when the deadline is just minutes away, your boss is waiting for a final print of the
pages you worked on before they go to the press and still you are struggling to rephrase one headline to
fit into that cramped space. Probably, it is the reason why most journalists are getting more of wrinkles
than laugh lines as you age.
And there are those days when you actually look like a ghost, expressionless, when you realized that a
headline has gone horribly wrong. The whole night, your BP is high and the nightmare begins to haunt
you.
That is why the music died and the next day you feel like tip-toeing into the room expecting no one picks
up that mistake of yours, otherwise, the accompanying shame is more painful than someone crushing
your head with a club as your world goes dark.
And you think at the outset, I was reporting a crime, eh?
“Wait, wait, that’s not exactly what I meant to say, I haven’t started explaining those unrelated reports
reading nice, remember?” Bhabesh continues when I thought it’s about time to wind up this story.
“You know the way we Manipuris love our state is incomparable and without a few sentences on this, it
would be quite incomplete to end this chat,” he goes on with his ramblings.
Any corner of the globe where there is a Manipuri, there will be talks of ngaari, or the similarly foul-
smelling (read aromatic) soibum and hawaizar, no matter he likes it or not, and how he envisions a
developed Manipur. (Sic) ‘’Don’t tag me as gender insensitive, man. I am from the old school and love to
generalize all as he, regardless of the gender,” Bhabesh says.
Talks of the fermented items are just spices of an eventful discussion on love of Manipur and nothing
to do with food habits. For, any Manipuri would take pride in identifying himself as a connoisseur of a
particular continental cuisine, a plateful of schezwan rice or the ubiquitous chilly chicken once you start
to make him talk about food, though in his heart he longs for mama’s hot iromba with or without the
yongchak (exaggerating again!!). “I may be going a bit far, but this is what I have seen and experienced,”
he argues.
Deep down in every heart of a Manipuri, however far he may be from the home state, a vision for
replicating in the far north-eastern corner, the finer and better life, he is experiencing, always exists.
However, many a dreams are trampled and will remain far-fetch more because of the tense and conflict
situation in Manipur. To put it in black and white, the ambience in the state has gone from bad to worse,
to the extent of being ridiculous in every sector.
Our traditions and heritage inherited from our ancestors, past rulers and leaders, some of whom we
accused of making historic blunders, are the only things remaining that we proudly associate with.
Cut to today, some slog like donkeys till their health fails only to earn peanuts, some ride on the waves
of the ever-increasing gun culture to become overnight millionaires and overtly flaunt their ill-gotten
gains, while others in bid to forget their worries, lead a carefree life taking to drugs, intoxicants and
what not. The so called innocent group is gradually becoming a vanishing tribe.
That is why music is dead to those fighting hard for a paisa, elsewhere a drug user is always tip-toeing to
hide what he has stolen from his mother, while the farmer will forever wield his plough to feed hungry
mouths amid cracking of guns till we all sink together in the dark abyss.
“But cheer up guys, this future is not written yet. Only we have the power to change it. Let’s forget our
own self for a day, do something good for others today and make it a habit!” he signs off.