The King decides what his subjects read

Cartoon by Awantha Artigala-Daily Mirror

 Being a journalist in an independent media organization would have been an enviable job. With it comes the luxury to laugh at those who betray their integrities to attain perks and privileges; those who lick stinky feet rest on high pedestals, become entertainment material. There is a pride in spurning a green billet wrapped in a brown envelope, handed over at the end of press briefings. There is an unavoidable supremacy that comes with the feeling that your head does not bow to anything else but truth. Empty may be your pocket and leaking may be your roof, yet you have a heart in full and a good night’s sleep devoid of demonic dreams.

Yet, the illusion that one could write what one would want at a so-called free press often goes into pieces.

After the conclusion of war, censorship that had been there in black and white has become a ghostly presence in every media institution. Sometimes, it comes in the form of illogical midnight requests of omissions by the management. Then there are taboos declared and dispensed by those even above the management.

Even with a hierarchy that minimally interferes with the editorial functions, there are hidden hands of the regime that could slip through the protective net to throttle the necks of those who hold the pen.

This is exactly how the impeachment motion against Chief Justice became a banned subject for us. Ours is perhaps the only national English daily that carried editorial after editorial, column after column questioning and cross-questioning the regime’s shameless behaviour in dissecting and raping the independent structure of the country’s judiciary. There were opinion pieces exposing the nudity of the Executive and the spinelessness of the Legislature.

The persistent attack was however to spur the conscience of the readers more than to prick the wrong-doers in the eye. Of course, there was nothing wrong with twisting Goebbels’ theory for a worthy cause; after all, it is not a lie that is being repeated—but truth, more than the whole truth and nothing at all but the truth!

One could not be too sure whether our objective was fulfilled; for the dangerous dormancy of the people still continues in abundance. As for the latter, they knew their hands were smudged with dirt and blood; hence, they dreaded revelation. They were the faceless, unreachable paragons of vagueness, hiding behind the humongous shadow of the crown who drew the free flowing ink out of our pens.

With much reluctance, the politically victimized CJ and the blatant insult to the country’s virgin of Justice needed to be swept under the King’s carpet. Perhaps, it is misinterpreting the mandate people granted the regime. Jumping over the fundamental and ethical boundaries, the King even decides what his subjects read!

Depriving the citizen of his rightful morsel of information is tyranny.

At such times, one has to read between the lines, decipher and decode the message. For our hands are tied to a forced allegiance for a regime that we no longer believe in; a government that could no longer be termed synonymously with the state.

Did the over-enthusiastic general public who took to the roads in support of the 18^th Amendment find it unfitting to oppose when the government trampled the Right to Information Bill?

The kingdom of free media collapsed with the fall of Leader. With its knights dead and having abandoned the fortress, it is just another security checkpoint taken over by the regime.

The Journalists and editors who do not go to taste the Kiri Buth at the Royal Palace automatically become traitors the same way Macduff becomes one for evading Macbeth’s banquet.

Well, tyranny in modern times could come with a majoritarian Parliament and an overwhelming public vote. Perhaps, Shakespeare’s Macbeth was a lamb when compared to the contemporary wolves.

Perhaps, censorship is a security measure for those who open their chests for bullets for nothing. It saves the lives of those of us who hate to sugar-coat our hatred and distaste. The price of life of a journalist has fallen so low during the recent times.

It is not worth dying for a citizenry who plays the statue when their rights and liberties are massacred in the broad daylight; for it is very unlikely that they will open their self-locked mouths in our demise when they were locked at the loss of what is very much theirs.

 

 

Kalu Maali: Unfair endings are always real!

As any other profession, journalism too would call upon its human breed to bear a few troubles and regrets. With the boastful heroics come the lists of haven’t-done’s and to-do’s. And if you are a woman, who walk into a Press room, fully driven to change the world, the common storyline of your life is that you fall in love with a bloke in or out of the paper, enter the holy mess of wedlock and bear children.

So, instead of changing the world, you watch your world change.

You go back to your fairytales, nursery rhymes, math tables and get stuck with homework. Only this time, it is because you have a child: a child who quenched the fire in you to be a daredevil. A child who is alien to the fencing skills of your pen.

And you wait and watch your orbits change.

And what about the man who wowed at the altar to be by your side during good times and bad times—happy days and sad days! He was the man who used to read your scribblings and say they were good. Now you realize, even though he read them, he never understood them completely.

You won’t blame him, coz, at the end of the day, he is just another reader.

Henrik Ibsen’s Nora is no journalist when she breaks open her cage. Yet she isn’t labeled a bad woman for seeking freedom. It looks extra-ordinary on stage or cinema screen yet, hypocritically nasty in real life. As opposed to Ruwanthie’s narrator who has understandably walked the streets, met many people and seen the world, Nora is just a closeted pet. Yet, she breaks away from the frame whereas her modern-day counterpart is still imprisoned in its four corners when the curtain falls.

Fairytales have cheated on us (with men).

Though they are named after women, it is the men in the shining armour that make them happily-ever-after’s. A woman comes to the world with a ready-made frame, whereas society sets the man free and let him pick the frame which suits him.

What makes the jubilant Kalu Maali a boy is that the frame won’t fit any other way.

Though my lips still taste bitter from last night’s premier, I buy it!

 Writer’s note: Five years down the line, I picture myself in Dil’s three-quarters, probably sporting the same hairdo. There are no big regrets for me to bag and take when I walk out of these doors. My seat is not unfillable. The void won’t remain for long. I wonder whether my hand will forget my pen---will my man still know me when he sees me?

Between the lines

Sandwiched between

Every two words

There is a word

I dare not utter…

Metaphorics

Never worked

With you

Never will it be…

To proclaim it

I am too shy

To admit it

I am too proud

-I miss you!

What I told you

A squirrel has built its nest on my windowsill. I want you to come and see my forcibly adopted kiddies, when they open their eyes.

 I fell from the bicycle and scraped my knees.

 I picked a fight with the bus conductor, because I caught him leaning on a schoolgirl.

My hair had grown two more inches. There are a few grey hairs, emerging here and there. Is growing old at 24, premature?

I cleaned my table and found a wrapper of a chocolate we had shared ages ago.

My slipper was scrapping again. Perhaps it is the roads I walk on-or is it just me?

My umbrella has grown frail, it cannot hold the rain anymore; perhaps, what it sends inside for me must be the the most gorgeous raindrops.

I broke a door handle, a tap and dropped a cup from my mother’s most treasured set-thus I was banished from the kitchen for two days.  Why is china worthier than the services of an efficient kitchen aide?

Hindi songs are my new lovers. Like the midnight hunger, that sends you down the stairs at the twelfth hour of the day, I creep into my desk, switch on the machine and listen to the same songs over and again. Please do thank the person who invented the earphones, on behalf of my family members.

What I didn’t tell you

My mirror has gathered dust. And I have forgotten what my face looks like. Perhaps you remember.

I miss the shoulder against which I fall asleep, the hand that disciplines my uncurbed hair and the tone of guilt in your voice when you say we are home.

I miss the scent of your perfume; you rub off on me when we hold hands in our usual Friday walks.

I see your face in my morning tea. Perhaps, this madness has  long lost its method.

What I carry around is a memory; a collection of days and minutes I took a lot for granted.

It serves  me right!

Dear earth, I promise…

When many lovers walk down the aisle and pledge love and dedication for each other for eternity, I will make a pledge for you, the day I get my chance; for you are part of me and I am part of you. Dear earth, I promise not to waste many papers on guest lists and no overprinting of invitations, cake boxes and thank you cards. I may not be able to save an entire forest with my attempt, yet, it will give me the satisfaction to know that another tree could live one more day, before going to the axe. Dear earth, I promise that I would not celebrate fulfillment at the expense of others’ bliss. Thus, I will not allow loud music to leave me with a thundering headache on the day that is supposed to be special for me.  Like you, I also do not understand the logic behind making glaring noises to say you are happy when silence or soft music would have conveyed the same message, perhaps, in a more elegant manner. Dear earth, if I am to have a cake, I promise that every part of it will be edible, unlike the expensive Regiform structures that will devour a portion of you, the day they are discarded. I might not have anything as grand as the showpieces, yet, my cake will be a real treat-not just a feast to the eyes. Dear earth, I promise to keep away plastic and undegradable materials that choke you. Hence, my wedding will not have liquor, no plastic bottles of fizzy drinks. I may displease many by being stubborn, yet, it is a good way to find out who love me more than they love the bottle. Even if the world laughs at me, perhaps you will understand my disgust at being kissed by drunkards, because a bride of any kind should not be humiliated in such manner at her wedding. No one takes seriously the wishes  coming from such persons, as it is hard to go by the word of drunkards. Dear earth, I promise not to be over-indulgent and go against nature by picking artificial flowers. Whatever I carry in my hands has to be natural, that withers with the dying sun. Thus, I will carry with me the ultimate truth of life and the lesson that, nature cannot be cheated, let down or ignored. Dear earth, I promise to plant a sapling on every anniversary, and many more whenever time permits.I may not be the most attentive and thoughtful person to have walked on you, yet I will care, the way I have been caring. Dear earth..till death do us closer, I promise!

The world beyond your doors

You wait for years, months and days and finally you have your wings fully grown. They stutter to the sound of wind the sight of the high skies. You are ready step on the window sill, spread your wings and take off! And you realize that, life is all about taking off’s and safe landings.

Despite the reasons that make one walk away and whatever the theories that justify such departures, it takes a lot of courage and soul-searching before someone decides to get out of his comfort zone.

It is hard to let go of die-hard habits, the familiar desks and chairs, the friends and villains and everything else that have been greeting you every day for the last four years. If you have any regrets, that would be about missing your good times with friends, the lazy Friday afternoons spent in front of the Television set watching cricket and of course the familiar food outlets within the vicinity.

Whatever the pundits say, those who proclaim their departures and act on them are thousand times better than those who say they go without a hint of courage to walk out. Announcing departures may be a convenient way of attaining favours or a better way to climb up the ladder. Yet, it’s a bargain, a lot of people cannot be comfortable with unless your conscience is deaf, blind and mute.

You spend your last few days, cherishing every moment of them. You talk to everyone because you know you might not get another chance. Your desk already looks empty because you have taken away the jokes, the poems and inspirational quotes that used to adorn your sidewall. You have started emptying the place of your presence because you will leave only the footprints and many memories that won’t die with time.

They say, despite the strengths of the individuals, goodbyes are always hard. Thus, you learn to uproot yourself from one place and plant yourself elsewhere. There is a pride that blossoms within you, because you act on your own will without letting someone else decide the fate for you.

With every goodbye comes a greeting for a new beginning. Thus, you begin to grow friends, spread goodwill among them and learn the proper way after trying out so many ways to do something.

If you have to cry, you will do so in secrecy and smile to the world because, it is your choice and you are about to reap the fruits of your hard efforts. Perhaps, after a long voyage, you will come back, like a wise, old sailor coming home.  After all, the world is still  round and small.