Goodness Gracious, Me?

‘‘Wear make-up,’’ advised a helpful colleague. Lipstick and kohl in place, I set out for a brand new career.

The peon at Hindmata, a Hindi daily, looked at me kindly before fetching his business journalist. ‘‘Main PR trainee hoon, aapse kuch baat karna hai,’’ I mumbled with a suitable faithful-pug expression. After a long pause, I realised he was waiting for me to continue.

Launching into a rapid fire description of my client, I slid to the edge of the seat unconsciously. ‘‘Aap aaram se baithiye (sit comfortably),’’ said the journalist. Hey, don’t be nice, that’s my job. But the man spilt honey, and told me that I could call him anytime.

At The Asian Age, I waited outside as the bored operator buzzed his entertainment desk. My victim was in a meeting, so I had to settle for a senior business correspondent instead.

Some people throw the line ‘‘Arre stop doing PR yaar’’, and mean it to be an insult. If you ‘do’ PR outside closed doors and get paid to do just that day after day, then you’d swallow the line.

‘‘Yes, yes. Send me an email,’’ the second scribe said. Not willing to be dismissed so easily, I moved on to a music launch. ‘‘No, no, I don’t cover that,’’ he muttered, shooting me a weird look and quickly passed on his card, before slipping back into air-conditioned comfort.

At regional newspaper Sakal, I was allowed inside the hallowed newsroom, after a brief wait. The entertainment journo read a newspaper, while passing asides to me. He wanted an interview with the Bollywood biggie. I understood his question only the third time around, and his patience was thinning. I pitched for a four-line mention in his paper. When he relented half-heartedly, I knew the news was unlikely to see the light of the day.

Next, I hopped onto a train to the other side of town. My legs were ready to sink into one of the couches at the plush Business Line office. Their receptionist was a marshmallow. I refused to budge and dropped the celluloid carrot. A special correspondent spent several minutes politely convincing me that he couldn’t print a four-line brief.

What if I gave him additional information? ‘‘I’d like to get the information on my own, ma’am,’’ he spat out, ‘‘there are enough newspapers downgrading this profession.’’ I wanted to tell him that I was on his side, but was sure he’d show me the way out. His exasperation levels leapt when I persisted, ‘‘But why can’t you print four lines?’’ With arched eyebrows he said, ‘‘I don’t know why we’re having this conversation. I’ve been a journalist since 1990, and with all due respect, this is not how we operate.’’ Bravo!

Saved the best for the last. Felt like I walked into Alcatraz. A senior business reporter at The Economic Times agreed to meet me, and then banged the phone down, when I told him that the guards wouldn’t let me meet the inmates. Enough PR. I called him right back, told him that it was rude to hang up on people, and then slammed it!

I’ve growled too when—just as I was facing my own firing squad—a mousey voice called to check whether I’ve received a release. I’ve also drawn blood when a story was passed on, after it was promised to me.

And while a few hours of agony may not change a thing, touché has a new flavour.