I would have titled this one ‘In Defence of Crime Reporting’, but I do not believe crime reporting needs a defense.
I have come across several people whose faces turn almost funereal when I tell them that I’m a crime reporter. As if being a crime reporter is some kind of a horrible affliction which will end only with desruction and decay. As if with every day I report crime, my soul is relentlessly proceeding towards a pit of fire, with flames hotter than the sight of Scarlett Johansson having a wardrobe malfunction.
To begin with, there are those that curse us to hell and beyond because, in their view, we thrive on murder and misery for a living. Let me tell you all, ladies and laddies, that crime reporting is more than just writing about the man who carved out his wife’s liver with a serrated knife. We crime reporters also write stuff like the latest tactics employed by law enforcement agencies to bring criminals to book, the increase or decrease in detections and convictions and the reason behind the same, latest weapons, vehicles and other facilities for the police force…lot of things. Hence, all of you who think we’re unemployed on a day when there’s no crime are in for a second thinking session.
Then there’re those who feel we’re in a negative field. Like this lady who’d come to office the other day, representating a religious organisation. She wanted to discuss possibilities of her religious head writing edit pieces for us, and for some reason (possibly because the bosses believe I’m a born charmer and adept at handling all sorts of people) I was deputed to go talk to her. So, I’m kicking my legs to surface from a sea of piety and devotion that the Woman in White is trying to drown me in, when she flew off on a tangent and asks me what beat I cover. And when I replied, ‘crime’, she looks like a kid that chanced upon a treasure trove of goodies. She then embarks on a discourse as to how crime reporting is ruining me and why I should be attending religious lectures delivered by her gurumata. Nothing against either you nor your guru, ma’m, but I suffer from neither depression nor insomnia, thank you very much. In fact, my bouts of insomnia became less frequent after I started working.
Also, there’s my Mom, and an aunt, among other relatives, who firmly believe that someone has to do crime reporting, but why can’t it be the neighbour’s son. The two ladies have made it their favoutire pastime to try and talk me into joining some other profession…any other profession, in fact. Like there was a phase when Mom would without respite was telling me to lose reporting and be a sub editor, because the post carries with it the word ‘editor’ and hence bears ‘respectability’.
“Wouldn’t you like to tell people that you’re a sub editor?” she asks me. No Mama Dearest, I wouldn’t. I’d rather tell people I’m a crime reporter and watch their reactions. I get a kick out of those, I really do. And no, this is not meant to belittle any sub editor, senior sub editor or chief sub editor who, for lack of better pastimes, happens to read this blog.
The aunt, not to be outdone, has been trying to convince me to be a banker. Herself an officer with a nationalised bank, she keeps assuring me that she’ll help me all she can to get into a bank. The only reason why I keep laughing it off instead of getting homicidal is that I’m her favourite nephew and have grown up being pampered by her. However, the next time she tries to pull that stunt, I’m gonna threaten to lock her 15-year-old in a room full of policemen who’ll introduce him to cigarettes, alcohol and corruption.
We might not be in a very attractive profession, although that is a matter of perspective, but we still supply you all with a lot of juicy gossip. And don’t tell me that you don’t enjoy to discuss gory murders and tales of grim revenge. And it is due to our hard work that all you parents are able to tell your children to stop spending so much time chatting on the internet unless they want to end up being kidnaped and killed by their orkut buddies, a la Adnan Patrawala, God rest his soul.
We look into the city’s grimy underbelly and bring you the news. All we ask for in return is to be left alone. Kindly oblige.
Having thus put my rant down on paper, I’ll now go back to hunting for developments into the case of a young man victim of brutal roadrage. A guy in a car caught his neck and the other guy in the driver’s seat started the ignition. Kid was dragged for several meters before being flung to the ground, and his head got crushed underneath the car’s rear tire. Yeah, go ahead, wrinkle your noses. Pity me and my breed.
