There comes a time when our calling demands us to rise to the occasion and acquit ourselves honourably. There comes a time when we redeem our pledge, and there came such a time last week. An event of momentous proportions took place, there was adequate notice given to all concerned, a cast of characters that can only be compared to the Delhi Durbar was assembled, a knot was being tied that in its social, cultural, and psychological import came as close as it can to the great Mughal getting the Rajput princess. And all we got from the media were saffron turbans.
One can only mourn for the possibilities that were missed. The country sat with bated breath, waiting to see the intricate pattern of henna, would it be a throwback to the patterns made famous in Mughal architecture, would it conform to the designs from the little tradition, would it soar loftily back to the great one, would it be a mix of the two and exemplify the very notion of Indian-ness, after all there has been the marriage to the tree, the visits to the temples, the talk of close attention to rituals. And all we got was a woman with some henna in her hair, or what seemed like it, and bandage on an arm declaring undying love or some such thing for the young man on camera.
What a shame. We wanted to know the weave of the sari and the colour, right down to the number on the Dulux or Gattu colour card. Sure we knew it would not be black or white. But we had hoped that the media charged with our emotional well being would not leave us lurching. Where we had hoped for knowledge, all we got was information, and that too of the trivial variety. Who wanted to know in which films the bride had acted as a bride and where the groom was a groom. Darn it, we wanted to know the menu, the quantity, the cutlery, the weave on the sherwani, the brand of the dye the father-in-law was using for his beard or his hair. And all we got was his rotund friend coming in and out of the venue.
For a media that desperately wants to live a tabloid world, it could not have been a deeper fall. Not one, not a single one, the redundancy is direly needed, could buy the rights for the event. Contrast this with what Indian conglomerates have being doing. Tatas went out and got Corus right in Britannia, Hindalco bought something in the New Kingdom, Essar managed to get a pie in the prairies, Reliance Industries managed to get some senior personnel fired with news of its dalliance with Dow. But not one newspaper, not one channel, could buy the rights to the wedding. Sure, may be the asking price was too much. But if you want to behave like a tabloid, act like a tabloid, serve it like a tabloid, be a tabloid. Reach for ’em pockets and pay up. There are highs to be reached. There are valuations to be achieved.
But deprivation was our lot. Not a single newspaper or channel could get a hidden camera or tape-recorder or mole into the event. They could not buy, bribe, cajole, threaten, schmooze, and lick even one guest into doing a tell-all. Or even a waiter, driver, florist, cook; just no body. Since Cardinal Richelieu purportedly advised Louis XIII that every person had a price and the trick was to ascertain it, or perhaps from even before, it has been customary to find one who is willing. Come to think of it, most on that guest list routinely do the song and dance routine for money, and there are careers to be made and unmade, a power that the media could well have used. But no, they could not get one to do a show and tell.
One wonders who to compliment and who to excoriate, the family involved in the marriage who were able to ensure that none of the retainers or guests said much or the media that failed miserably in getting for us the real cahuna. When the media could have risen in our collective estimation by telling us the inside story of an event such as this, they stood outside, lamely trying to look on and sharing with us what any Raju or Sanju standing outside the bungalows could have told us. The days are not propitious for a class action law suit, but if they were we should all have gone marching to the law courts sighing and complaining of how these tabloid wannabes, on air and paper, let us down. We would demand our money back. Let it be known that from now on, in the realm called Bharat also known as India, the media shall live in infamy for they broke the trust that we had reposed in them. We had more than given up hope of getting them to do some journalism, but even in being well-blooded tabloids, they turned out to be poor mongrels.
