This same guy, during the Lent season, decided to skip work on Maundy Thursday, because someone told him that Good Friday fell on Thursday that particular year. All said and done, Mehboob was a sweet guy because he would come with delicious beef kebabs for all of us during Ramzan evenings.
Talking of bloomers, readers of the Herald newspaper would have had an early morning wire trip one morning if this one hadn't been detected just in time. The edition was put to bed, and the customary good-nights were done with. At that time, there was a process known as spooling, in which Page 1 was printed on a film paper to do away with the 'hazards' of cut and paste process. The Linotype operator was an apology of a man, most of the time reeking of a combination of the local urrak or feni and ghutka. The chief sub sent the page for spooling and left. Before I signed off from the office, I just happened to go to the plate making section to see how my page was shaping up and just glanced at Page 1 which was spooled and ready for plate-making. Lo and behold, yesterday's front page was gloriously laid out on the pasting grid and ready for plate-making. Even the pasters did not realise the mistake as the advertisement for that particular day was the same size as the previous days. Our Linotype operator spooled yesterday's page and sent it for plate-making. I gave him a big dressing down but did not report it to anybody as he begged me not to do so.
Talking of the pasters, Umesh, a big bull of a guy was my 'best friend' as he always liked to trouble me by going to sleep just as I finished page 3 and brought it up for cut pasting on the grid. Somehow, our animosity made us wary of each other and we developed a mutual respect. Despite numerous complaints by the chief-subs about his behaviour, he remained non-chalant as he did not expect the powers that be to take any action on him.
I guess that this attitude for disregard towards people in power is all prevalent and all pervasive in society. It is an universal truth that any law is meant to be broken. As a corollary, frozen laws are enacted by the government only in order to freeze some people, though these laws are hardly taken out of the freezer and defrosted. A case in point is the anti-smoking and anti-spitting law decreed in Goa with much fanfare and welcomed by many quarters. One aspect which was raised by noted anti-tobacco activist Dr Sharad Vaidya, was how effectively would the anti-smoking law be enforced in the State. A valid point which I had raised with the then Chief Minister Francisco Sardinha. He said on record that it was difficult to implement. He also admitted that there are always those who want to defy the law.
Rules are there on which the government seems to suffer from selective amnesia, because they are unable to implement in the right spirit as they have no clue as to how to go about it. When the High Court gave an order banning loud music after 10 pm based on a complaint by the environmentalists, Choppy and me wrote a series of articles for Insight analysing in depth, the pros and cons.
One point that had us puzzled was from ought the sound to be measured. At its source, or from the point where the complaint was made. Obviously, the authorities could not place their sound-metres at the mouth of a 10,000 watt music speaker and say the decibel level were high. When pointed out, the Secretary of the Goa State Pollution Control Board talked greek. For that matter, we discovered that the pollution control board was not even equipped with proper sound-metres. Neither could the government come in defence of the music industry and allied activities like the night clubs which depended on music and entertainment to draw tourists to Goa.
After the much touted and much publicised millennium rave party by Mumbai tycoon Jay Wadia was banned by the High Court in December 1999, I was witness to two rave parties in January 2000, though on a smaller scale, but where the corruption by the police was displayed in its full naked glory nonetheless. At one rave party at Bamboo Forest in Anjuna, instead of stopping the party, the police arrived, collected their share and left the place as unobtrusively as they came. They were blind to the open sale of drugs and were deaf to the raves' sound pollution which carried on well past midnight into the wee hours of the morning.
Another rave party also organised near Anjuna was completely insulated against police harassment. Such was the extent of influence asserted by the organisers of this rave party that the police just turned a deaf ear to phone calls made by Choppy and me just to check how much the police is interested in enforcing the law. We do not know whether money had changed hands but when we did not get any response to the repeated phone calls we made to the nearest police station we personally went to speak to the police officer on duty – but to our horror found the police station was closed, lock stock and barrel, as deserted as a place hit by a typhoon. But our labour was not in vain. Next day, this was in February 2000, Ashley ran an exclusive report on the front page based on our first hand account. But the surprising part was the way the DySP North Goa denied everything, including our calls and visit to the police station.
My days in Herald are truly memorable. Along the way I did trample on a few toes inadvertently, but my well wishers and the learning tips they provided me are invaluable. Any memories I carry of Herald must be painted with the pictures of Choppy, Rico and Ashley, who contributed greatly to my development as a journalist. I can safely include this trio into the list of the other great people like Devika Sequeira, Pamela, Derek Almeida about whom I have heard a lot.
I guess, the journalistic calibre of the above mentioned people and their attitude of being go-getters rubbed off onto people like me. The excitement of running after news, rather than waiting for news to land in the form of press notes or government hand-outs, is a different ball-game altogether. It was a question of being there first which I liked most in Herald. During the police firing incident at Cortalim on the anti-Meta Strips agitationists, when two or three people were grievously injured, I know it was we from Herald who reached the hospital first. I fail to recollect whether it was Choppy or Ashley with whom I landed at Goa Medical College where the injured were brought.
Although the photographer had gone missing during this crucial hour, we were nevertheless armed with our dictaphones to record the first hand accounts of how the police firing started in Cortalim. We managed to elicit the names of injured, right from the horse's mouth so to speak, got reactions of the people who accompanied the injured and were back in the office in front of our computers.
Even as the day's incidents took shape in the form of a lead story for the edition, our faces were somber and anger welled up in us as we could not forget the gory images of the body parts of one injured youth. He was shot through his genitals. But we were journalists and were supposed to objective in our reports. That was Herald, getting it right the first time and all the time.
In a sentence, I stitched my cloak and bought my dagger, from Herald.
Chapter 11: In black & white… newsdesk nuggets
Derek Almeida
Derek Almeida, besides being one of Goa's finest and most aesthetically-balanced deskmen, steals time to write humour columns whenever possible. This product of Goan journalism has won the respect of his juniors by his honesty at work, his ability to stand by his subordinates, as well as his considerable if under-appreciated talent. Memorable headings like 'Sirsat elected, Tomazinho selected' (after a controversial election to the Goa Speaker's post) are credited to Derek, as every self-respecting deskman of that era in this state would recall.
When I joined the Herald in 1985, the news desk consisted of two unvarnished desks and three very uncomfortable chairs. The chief-sub's chair was distinguishable from the others because it had wheels. It also had a back-rest and seat fashioned from woven plastic which had given way due to continuous use by Anthony Fernandes alias Anton, Frederick Noronha alias Rico and sometimes Francis Rebeiro alias Choppy. I was one of those who did not have an alias.
Those were the days when the PTI and UNI machines were hardly two metres away from the news-desk and Rico had invented an ingenious way of preventing the clatter from getting to him. He used to stuff paper in his ears, because it was cheaper than cotton.
I also remember Anton completing his work before dinner on the night shift and reading a novel while waiting for galley-proofs. How nice it was to be chief-sub back then. I thought, one day when I reach that post I too would read novels. When I finally made it, the system had changed and there was no time to read novels. So I do have some regrets.
Rico, by the way, was very possessive of the TV which projected black-and-white images of the news. He never let us watch anything more that the news and, if I remember well, used to take out the `on-off' knob and stash it in his pocket till the end of the shift. He was, and still is, a work-is-worship chap. Rico was also the only man on the news-desk who could type with the speed of a steno.
We also had a thin wiry fellow named Madhu who made tea and did some odd jobs like taking edited to the composing room on the mezzanine floor and oiling the A4 paper print-outs to make them transparent. Every time he bunked work he would return the next day with a mournful look and announce that some relative had died. Five days later he would conveniently kill another member and disappear for another two days. This never stopped because he had and extended family of relatives comprising several aunts, uncles, aunts-in-law, uncles-in-law, cousins and god knows what. He never followed any pattern and killed them at random. Some of his relatives died several times. By the time he left, I am told, he had bumped off almost all the members of his family.
I can't remember if Madhu made good tea or not. To me, a cup of tea at work was a welcome luxury, especially because it was free. I say this because Herald was then paying trainee-subs Rs 400 per month. Not enough to keep body and soul together. So, when I was confirmed and my salary jumped to Rs 750, I moved into a new economic bracket of professionals who could afford to buy Maggie two-minute noodles. The Rs 750 put an extra bounce in my walk and the chin vent a notch higher, even though I still had to depend on my Dad for clothes.
The only reporter we had was Rajesh Singh who was very good at chess and devoted a great deal of his time playing Rajan Narayan, the editor. Apart from his writing skills, he was adept in getting other subs to buy him cups of tea.
It was at the Herald that I first met Elston Soares alias Paku (some years later, we met again at Newslink, the Belgaum-published English-language sister publication of Tarun Bharat). He had a huge grin, wrote with his left hand, ate with his left hand and edited copy with his left hand. In short, he was a `leftie'. He had an interesting sense of humour. I am told he coined the term `Romi-Marathi' for the language written by some correspondents.
Apart from the tea, another luxury enjoyed by sub-editors living in and around Panjim was a home drop at night in the office jeep. On one or two occasions I remember being dropped in the Patrao's black Mercedes to the Don Bosco Hostel. This luxury was withdrawn after we formed an employees union several years later.
This was also the time when I met Alexyz, the cartoonist. He came across as a very friendly person with a benign face covered with a lot of hair, mostly black; a very hearty laugh and a penchant for practical jokes. I remember him standing on St Tome street and directing all passersby to the Herald. The poor souls would enter the office with blank looks not knowing what had hit them.
Those were the days when the post office was a bigger landmark and Herald was referred to as `behind the post office'. So Alexyz once sent us a cartoon enclosed in an envelope. It said: 'To Rajan Narayan, behind the post office; From Alexyz, behind the bars.' That was Alexyz.
A few weeks after I was formally accepted at trainee-sub-editor a local farmer, this was before the advent of progressive farmers, or whatever they call them these days, horticulturists and what not… So, a local farmer came to the office with a very long snake-gourd. Since volunteers were hard to come by, I was ordered to pose with the vegetable. The next day my photo was published on the inside page of the Herald. I did not know whether to feel proud or embarrassed. Today, I still don't know.
After a year, I returned to Belgaum and two years later when I returned the Herald had changed. Rajan had a bigger cabin. Norman Dantas had a smaller cabin and Gustav Fernandes the manager had a cabin of intermediate size. The News Desk had morphed from two unvarnished desks to a large one with a sunmica top. Now it looked more like a cheap dining table from the Holy Spirit Church fair. It was was positioned between Rajan's and Norman's cabins and under the altar.
Rico had left and Anton had become a reporter. The others had left too. Wilfred Pereira, who was a stringer from Margao, had become chief-sub. Willy, as he was known, was a very organized man. His drawer, which was located at one end of the news-desk, was neatly kept and contained almost everything like pens, scales, soap. It was like a mini-stationery shop. I always suspected Willy also had a tin-can opener and a Swiss army knife stashed somewhere in that drawer. Willy also had a lovely handwriting.
It was during this second stint that I met Ivo Vaz from Varca. He was blessed with cat feet and always walked into the office with an old airline bag without making a sound. Ivo looked dead serious all the time, even during picnics. He once organized a picnic for Herald staffers at Varca, where he sat in one chair throughout the day. When we left, he was fast asleep. Ivo also had a strange way of editing copy which reminded me of an automobile assembly line. After editing each news story he would attach a rectangular piece of blank paper with a pin to the left-hand corner and keep it aside. After piling up several copies in this manner he would start giving each story a heading. Ivo had an antique olive green Morris Minor, which he treasured, and a daughter whom he loved. Everytime his daughter recovered from some ailment he would treat all of us to ice cream, with our peon Jose acting a facilitator in the whole process. Jose would do anything for a free cake, ice cream or anything edible.
Then there was Bone-Crusher Agnel who took pleasure in squeezing the life out of anyone who made the mistake of shaking hands with him. My hand some how survived Agnel's vice-like grip.
Another sub-editor who caught my attention was Cornelius Gomes who worked on the sports desk with Nelson Dias. Cornelius always sported a beard and mustache which covered most of his face and gave him a Ringo Starr look. Cornelius also played football for the Herald team and had this 'queer' technique of tackling rough players. When ever he encountered a player leaning on him to head the ball or digging an elbow in his ribs, he would tickle the chap's backside. This technique proved to be more effective than the ref's whistle.
By the time Herald completed its tenth year we had a formidable team with players like Tulsidas, Jason, Alaric, Jose, Domnic, Pradeep, our platemaker, and Vilas Sarang who never made it to the team. Umesh alias Umi, our sleepy paster, was a live wire in the goal. With Choppy as manager we were willing to take on anyone.
On one of our anniversaries Choppy set up a match with the Navhind Times. Two or three days prior to the match we were shocked to discover that NT would be fielding a few first division players from the Dempo team. We nearly suffered a stroke. But then Choppy always had this never-say-die attitude. In a crisis he would take two deep inhalations from an anti-asthma pump which he always carried in his pocket, and, in seconds go from Bruce Banner to The Hulk. In a day, Choppy's never-say-die attitude spread to everyone and off we marched to the Don Bosco school ground in our new uniforms for the slaughter.
Guess what? We won.
That was not all. Choppy loved ceremonies and had arranged an elaborate function with a chief guest, prizes and speeches. After the speeches the Herald team captained by Tulsidas (I think) went up and received their medals. Everyone who had adorned the Herald colours got a medal. Next was the turn of the Navhind Times team to collect their medals. Half way through this process Choppy realized that he had bought less medals. We hit the panic buttons. But then, in the Herald you have to be resourceful to survive. We quickly formed a human chain and started passing medals presented to the Herald team back to the chief guest. It was a smooth operation. Months later, when the time came for Navhind Times to celebrate its anniversary, they did not dare play a football match with us.
I also remember playing a football match on the beach during a picnic at Candolim. Our team had earned a penalty and Pamela D'Mello decided to take it. (Yes, she played football). By the way, picnic matches are scaled down versions of the world cup. The goals are tiny, the playing field is small and there's no ref. Before the penalty could be taken, a dispute broke out between us and Ashley do Rosario over how the penalty should be taken. Ashley grabbed the ball and insisted that the spot kick should be taken with the heel and with the player facing his back to the goal. I don't know where Ashley found this rule, but we were aware of Pamela's prowess as football player, and hence, objected. Those were pre-mobile phone days, so there was no way of contacting FIFA for their take on the rule. Finally after much cajoling and arm twisting, Ashley relented and allowed Pamela to take the kick. The ball was placed five feet from the goal which was one-and-half foot wide. Tulsidas, our captain, who was desperate for a goal gave Pamela a thorough briefing on how to take the kick. Next he drew a line in the sand starting from the ball to the center of the goal line to make it easier for Pamela. Ashley did not object. We all stood back and waited. Pamela positioned herself behind the ball, lifted her right foot and kicked with all her might. The ball missed the goal by three feet. That was how Pamela missed her chance to enter the Herald football hall of fame. She went on to be a very good reporter.
This was also the picnic when Ashley drove from Candolim to Betim in his Fiat without releasing the handbrakes.
Somewhere during the eight years I lived and worked in the Herald, a fellow villager named Lirio Vasconsales found employ as a sub-editor. This wiry chap had a face full of hair and was a die hard Navhind Times fan. He used to fold the NT and stuff it into his trouser pocket, to be retrived for leisure reading on the last bus to Margao. This habit earned him a sobriquet – pocket Navhind Times. Lirio also possessed a matter-of-fact sense of humour. One day Lirio was feverishly editing copy with a ball pen refill even though he had an empty ball pen in his pocket. Sports editor Nelson Dias, who happened to pass by, asked Lirio: "Arre baba, why don't you put the refill in the pen and use it?" Lirio looked up at him through his glasses and said: "No time". This was the one and only time I saw Nelson hit for a six.
In those days before the lazer printer was perfected by HP the A4 sized `butter` paper used to get `jammed` inside the machine very often. During one such occasion Lirio who had been observing the machine for over half-an-hour in the composing department turned to me and said: "We insert butter paper in the machine, so how do we get paper jam?"
My first encounter with Rajan Narayan was not awe-inspiring. Rajan was never a dresser and, on the few occasions when he managed to get into a long sleeved shirt and ironed trousers, he looked quite smart. The first time I saw him for one of the anniversaries when he came with a slightly over-sized navy blue coat. The next occasion was when he returned from Dubai on the first Air-India direct flight from the Gulf. His attire never bothered him or any of the staff.
Rajan had two indulgencies – smoking and chewing `Halls' sweets. And the smoking nearly burnt him out one day. I was in the office that day when a couple arrived to see Rajan. As usual he lit a cigarette and was puffing away when the couple noticed smoke under the table. It didn't take long for Rajan to realize that his trouser pocket was smouldering. He thrust his hand into the pocket to put out the fire and in the process burnt his fingers. After a little slapping here and there the fire was put out. I was quickly summoned and told to buy a tube of Burnol. Rajan never believed in moderation. He squeezed half the tube on his fingers and continued conversation with the couple with the yellow paste all over his hands. I don't know how his pocket caught fire, but I think Rajan absent mindedly shoved the match in his pocket instead of the ashtray.
There were a lot of other interesting incidents that happened in the Herald, some nice, some not so nice. Like how we played mandicot all night in the composing room or how we celebrated on Independence eve with a bottle of whiskey and nearly got caught or the formation of the Union, or the time when the electrical system short circuited and Pamela, Alaric and Paul filed stories in candle light, or Rico's hoi-te.
Perhaps some other time? Perhaps, for the twenty-fifth anniversary e-book.