Sunday Snippets: Those good old days of journalism!

Sunday Snippets

By Venkatesh Raghavan

It’s just a recollection of memories I have about one of the senior journalists who played a major role in grooming me to think like a journalist, namely Glen D’souza, my chief reporter in Free Press Journal, who has now passed away. 

The very first day Glen walked into the Free Press office, we got introduced by another senior figure in journalism, Chandrakant Desai, who was a legend covering the civic hall for Mumbai. I addressed Glen as “Sir”. Glen immediately shot back, saying, “No sir business. We are all journalists. You can call me by first name, Glen. Remember, as a journalist, you should not address any one as sir. Even if it happens to be the President of India, you should address him as “Mr. President”.

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This put me at ease handling senior people in my profession. The next memory I have of Glen is when he started grooming each one of us reporters by using his own technique of motivation. It was the early nineties. In those days, there was no Internet or mobile telephony. The only communication channels we had were our fax machine and landline telephone. Glen sat with each of us and planned the special stories each reporter would be submitting for the week. As I kept filing my stories, Glen would put a tick against the completed story and I was expected to move on to the next. I am saying this to emphasize that unlike in this era of social media, WhatsApp and other quick modes of information putting pressure on the reporting staff, it was the era in which reporters had enough time to plan and work on their stories.

At the end of each week, after ensuring that each of us fulfilled our quota of special stories, Glen would take us to the Press Club and treat us to beer and foodies at his expense. Glen used to spend out of his pocket for all of us, thereby fostering a feeling of working as a team. It not only kept us motivated but also eager for Saturday evenings, when the team shared everything with Glen at the Press Club. I remember an occasion, Glen saved me from the Editor’s wrath. I was handling the Aviation beat for Free Press. A story about a flash strike by Indian Airlines (IA) pilots appeared in the other papers. When the editor asked me how I missed out on it, Glen told the editor, “Allow Venky to ask his source on how it was missed.” I called up Robin Pathak who was in a managerial post at IA. Pathak told me I had called up your landline but it continually came engaged and thereby I was unable to reach you. Glen conveyed this to the editor and it gave me reprieve.

The other occasion I was at the receiving end was when I had gone and attended a naval function on a Saturday afternoon. As we came back, some of the senior journalists told the naval PRO, “Let’s have an embargo till Monday. The naval PRO amicably agreed and the senior journalist team passed on the word that there is an embargo. I returned to office and informed Glen about the senior journalists’ decision to impose an embargo. Glen asked me, “Who had asked for the embargo? Was it the official whip from the Naval command?” I told Glen, “No. It was a group of senior journalists who insisted on the embargo.” I got an earful from Glen for the next five minutes. I promptly went to the computer room and filed the story on the Naval function.

Glen then explained to me, “Never take any diktat from any journalist, however senior he or she may be. It’s not in their hands to decide on which date your newspaper will publish a story. As a conscientious reporter, it’s your duty to ensure that all stories required of you are filed well in time.”  As time went by, I had a lot of memories of praise and also scolding that I used to receive in the course of carrying out my duties.

Decades late, I was informed that Glen was paralyzed partially and had lost mobility. When I visited him at his Malad (W) flat at Orlem, he could only talk in a whisper. He was not even a pale shadow of the personality and confidence he had exuded when he was in command of our team. I felt very sad and wished I could give anything to even hear his scolding voice, saying “Get Cracking”, egging me on to finish the next assignment on the list of stories he had allotted me for the week. Life just carries memories that can be treasured.