And Then, The Cashew Tree Shed a Dozen Leaves

A decade-and-a-half life
A search on Google for something that would help a story took me to down memory lane. A link which took me to my first ever blog. I had called it Yeh kahaan Aa Gaye Hum...Donno why the name was chosen but that's one question I tend to ask myself often. A long forgotten blog, created with the help of a friend at Sify.com with whom I was associated while working with dear friend Radhakrishnan who today is a successful entrepreneur in the media space through his highly-acclaimed company. Many jobs, many a city and here I am in good old Thiruvananthapuram, back at BS, where I began fin journalism on a serious note. It’s almost a decade-and-a-half since I walked down the Karyavattom campus of the Kerala University straight into a news desk which taught me what practical journalism is all about. From then on, it had been a momentous journey, if I may use that phrase. Lustily roaming the pathways of Bombay, exploring the dark alleys of the city that never slept, making way for the cows and the bar girls as they took over the neon-lit streets night after night and then moving on to a totally different planet called Madras for a short while before being called on duty to serve a highly-pretentious world called Bangalore. A walk down memory lane gives me much cud to chew on.

Finally, as I moved from the silicon city and all the way side dhabas that provided ecstasy 24x 7, to the good old Madras of my dreams the decade had passed by. Madras gave me all that life thought I was worthy of, well almost. Brickbats, bouquets, love, hatred, music, envy, a great place to work and a heartful of friends, all came as a package as Madras rolled out the red carpet. As always, a couple of years later, I ditched innocent Madras too for pure selfish gains. The lure of the home soil proved too hard to resist. This, coupled with the faith reposed on me by the gentleman I consider my mentor, my guru in journalism, by picking me for my current assignment, made me dump the Madras of my dreams and head even south. The question, yeh kahan aa gaye hum? kindles yet again. But this time, I can rest assured I have come to the right place, a place that really looked forward to my presence. For, my little angel is nearing three and this is when daddy dearest should be near her, right?

A Mumbai dost the other day called up to say a colleague was taking up a new job for a CTC of Rs 3 lakh. And, another just moved to a place where he is being offered something close to that figure. Should I have stayed back in Mumbai? Should I have opted to climb the pan and faeces-stained footpaths of Bombay and clung on to life in those fast moving local trains day after day for that kind of money. Should I have waited to be struck down by some crazy son-of-the-soil sneaking around the Ulsoor lake in IT city? Should I have been mowed down by the political buffoon’s speeding car along Anna Salai unmindful of the red lights? The losses may have induced many a teardrop in me, they still do, as I decided to leave these metros. But then, I have come home to see my kid and soul mate wait for me. I have come home to work for a paper that is any day the best in the scene. So it is double the treat. As a decade and a half rushes past me I dig out my first-ever blog the search engine threw up and I copy and paste the first words I scribbled then. This isn’t just a cut and paste job, honestly. It comes straight from the heart. This, in fact, is my way of thanks giving to the great souls that created a journalist in me. Heregoes :

My gratitude goes to all my gurus who taught me to write without making too many mistakes. Dr J V Vilanilam, the second best teacher I ever had. (The best teacher to me is my dad.), Mr Raj Nambisan, for guiding me through the corridors of responsible journalism, Mr A K Bhattacharya, for making me feel like I'm always fit for journalism, Mr AP Viswanathan, for instilling in me the confidence to stick to journalism forever, Mrs. Prema Manmadhan, Mr V Vijaya Kumar and Mr Mohan Pillai, who continue to inspire, Mr Harachand, grand old man to some, but the youngest among my friends, Ashokettan, the unsung hero of Malayalam cinema. Can you name someone who speaks and writes and sings and thinks better than him? And, last but not the least, my dearest wife, Deepa Nair, for always inspiring thoughts in me and ensuring that I never stay away from the pen or the keyboard.

And life goes on. So many cities, so many news bureaus and desks, so many acquaintances, friends, more than just friendships, different bank accounts with not much in them to taolk about, and here I am, years later at the place where I grew up. What more do I crave for when i can boast of a great employer and a great family to bank on. Life goes on, smooth, unmindful of what's in store for me ahead of me.