Saturday 4th October 2008

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asks the manager of the newspaper’s printing press. He has the six of us in his spotless office, and outside we can hear the whirr of machines and the sharp smell of ink. He sits straight and clasps his hands before him. His smile is fixed, and his eyes fill with excitement. We’re not sure what he can do for us. He prints our daily paper already. Karsten, a Californian with a dry sense of humour and dead-pan delivery, looks confused. “Show us the printing press?” he asks. The mind boggles as to what else he might expect us to need. A job? A souvenir? Some lifestyle advice? Evidently, he felt that we required a glass of coke, for these duly appeared on a silver tray.

The press is located an hour’s drive south of Delhi. It’s one of two presses our newspaper owns, and prints the majority of the 3.7 million copies, along with the 773,000 copies of it’s sister paper, an economic journal. They’re delivered everywhere, even to the remotest areas of the country, and all before mid-morning.

Back home, in my household at least, a weekend paper is bought and remains untouched all week. It’s eventually banished to the toilet to curl at the edges. But then, almost everyone is literate: what’s there to prove? Here, newspapers are genuinely guzzled, perhaps because their smaller size makes them that little bit less intimidating. “I bought the New York Times once,” an executive editor at our newspaper had once said. “I could barely carry it up the stairs.” I found the $4 worth it just for the wedding section, but didn’t feel that this was an appropriate comment to make at the time.

But in India, having a newspaper delivered is a sign of literacy. Poignant when you consider that almost a third of the country is illiterate. These things are precious, and a sign of status. The choice between tabloid and broadsheet is a question of age rather than class.

The printing press is a Methuselah, a monster made of rolls of paper the size of several breeze blocks, speeding belts of newsprint crossing each other like a series of enormous white ropes and pulleys, and crisp folded papers which snake to the ceiling and around to the mailroom. Here, they are cornered and packed by swift metal arms, before being shoved in the direction of a team of young men. They swing the bundles on the back of trucks as if they were aid packages. “manual labour is cheaper than machines in India,” says the manager. “Unlike the West.” We try to avoid guessing just how cheap.

We are lead through a yellow perspex door and told to take of our shoes. We’re about to enter the temple of the printing plates. “Are there everlasting gobstoppers in here?” quips Karsten. It certainly seems possible that we might soon be bundled into a boat and sailed down a chocolate river, or at least one made of ink. Two engineers sit in front of glowing screens, examining the PDFs of pages for the day. I think of my days as editor of my university newspaper when, at 4 am, our phone would ring off the hook, nudging us to send the paper. Voices would get more agitated at the press until they broke into a threatened refusal to print. These men seemed too relaxed for all that. Huge printers churned out precise aluminium plates for the cyans, magentas and yellows. It was a masterpiece of fine tuning. I cast my mind back to the student days and felt a pang of guilt.

At 4 am, we drive through the sleeping city until we reach the outer circle of Connaught Place. Amongst the shadows of colonial columns, a glow emerges. Turning the corner, we are met by the bustle of newspaper vendors, each of them scurrying between piles of newspapers, gathering their supplies for the day. It is one of several such ‘depots’ spread over the city. It was extraordinary to think that across this huge country, thousands of vendors were now doing the same. It is like a newspaper carnival, with the same trucks we had seen leaving the printing press backing up to drop off their heavy load. Somehow everything is counted, and each of the 400 vendors, known to the staff, is given their usual share of the booty.

Some set out the multicoloured carpet of their magazines right there, waiting for the early morning commuter rush that will begin in a few hours. Others have spread out blankets, or makeshift mats made out of old newsprint. Sitting cross-legged upon them, they count their papers and place the supplements inside. As the sun rises, they gather up their bundles, loading them onto the back of their bicycles and mototbikes and speed off to their beats around the city.

It’s a simple system, and a manual one. India is still a manual society. Though mammoth machines and precise technology exist to do the most pressing of tasks, there is nothing as cheap here as the human hand. And these cheap hands are the lucky hands. Vendors, packers, those that mop the factory floor: all of these are more economical for their bosses than a robotic arm. In restaurants and cafes too, more staff line the walls than would be needed to wait tables in the busiest of lunch hours. Outside taxi queues and tuk tuk lines, men hang around who seem to have no use at all. Uniformed figures sit at road blocks fanning themselves under umbrellas. People are cheap, so why not have more people? Why have newspaper shops, or vending machines, when a man can sit on a street corner, or throw papers into houses for the price of a 30% markup on the 2 rupee paper they deliver?

It’s surprising that the legacy of manual labour seems to exist in a country that is known for its rapid industrialisation. But this is a side of India that may never disappear. And, in the newspaper distribution business at least, it doesn’t need to.

Thursday 2nd October 2008

“We’ll have to teach you the rules of cricket,” says the Editor-in-Chief, “and then you’ll know what civilisation is really about.” The familiar Indian joke is visited upon the six of us young journalists as we begin our new job at a national newspaper in Delhi. I think these words fail to persuade my five colleagues, all of whom were American and under the age of thirty. We had spent the last 48 hours without any internet access, or promise of an Indian SIM card. Worse: this morning our cook had made us pasta for breakfast.

“Is cricket a bit like baseball?” asks Malena, a wide-eyed Nigerian American possessed of the kind of boundless, foundationless enthusiasm that makes her presence essential at such times. The Editor-in-Chief does not grace her question with an answer. He slowly tips his head towards his assistant and says, “We must teach them.”

The Editor is possessed of the attributes that all editors have, and no doubt are born with – calmless, ruthlessness, and an time-bomb scorn which doesn’t detonate until the bemused reciprocant is firmly outside the door. His bulk (which I would imagine has been acquired over a number of years) produces the sweaty validation of his power, which manifests itself in that other common editorial trait: the ability to believe that newsrooms are non-hierarchical, whilst at the same time planting himself firmly at the top. He delivers all the appropriate lines. “All newsrooms are democracies,” he says, effortlessly paraphrasing Evelyn Waugh, “up to a point.” He grins. His assistants to the left and right do not, but slip off their sandals and examine their toes with their fingers. At the appropriate time, they are primed for laughter. The Chief’s comments are always accompanied by a shaking of the head.

“Why you taking three days for orientation?” he demands of us, as if we had organised our own schedule. Human Resources had planned a very American itinerary that included an insight into the business, a trip to the plant, and a review of the paper’s history, which, conducted in our own branded polo shirts, would in New York be dubbed “brand awareness”. It would also include (spicy vegetarian) hamburgers for lunch and an all-day drip-feed of coffee. Right on schedule, a man enters with a tray dotted with small cups of milky, sweet tea.

“You are wasting your time with this ‘orientation’,” says the Editor, waving his glasses. The assistant editors sit forward nervously. He leans back in his chair. He is clearly not going to make any changes himself. Before him is spread the day’s rival newspapers, completely uncreased and bleach-white. “But what is to be done?” he asks, gesturing toward them.

Human Resources had given us a briefing the day before, in which they explained that they were on a recruitment drive. “Our job is to look for the talent,” the head of department explained, twirling the corner of a ringmaster moustache. The newspaper had been visiting university campuses recruiting reporters. I thought of the fact that, even with a masters degree in journalism, I had been offering my free services in drooling submission to one British national newspaper for two years without whisper of a contract. Like my American colleagues, I had come to India for a job because there were none at home. And these people knew it. They had beaten us at cricket for years. Now they were bowling effortlessly at new wickets.

“We do not need to teach her the rules of cricket,” laughs one of the assistants, pointing my way, “she is British.” I had just admitted to one of my colleagues in the lift that I thought cricket was an elitist sport I’d deliberately evaded understanding. Now, on demand I look up, smile, and titter gently. It was either join the friendly head-shaking or become its victim. “Did you know,” said the other assitant editor, contributing his rupees’ worth, “that the Americans actually played cricket before the Indians did?” The others nod knowingly. “The Australians and the Americans, they all played before we became the best.”

India’s world cricket game is increasingly being played in her favour. We sat in the office that day, not as peace corps visitors offering benevolent biceps to dig a well but as potential immigrants looking for jobs that were too scarce back home. The tables had most certainly turned.

Yesterday, the very same newspaper published a piece on its comment pages that followed the life of one Californian woman. She was, it reported, part of a growing number of American former homeowners who were forced to live in their cars. Her house had been repossessed; now she was left to drive around all day on overpriced tanks of gas until the parking lots opened, at which time she would drive in, pet her dog on the head, and reach into the glove box for the pot of yogurt that constituted her evening meal. She kept her gym membership open because it was the only place she could go for a shower.

The Editor leans back on his chair and surveys his young, non-Indian interns. Today is Eid ul-Fitr, the last day of Ramadan. All over the city, people are celebrating in the streets, making their way to feasts and dancing. It also happens to be the public holiday marking Gandhi’s birthday, and there are lavish displays of government charity, including education programmes, public ceremonies, and even free health checks for citizens. The tortoise is catching up with the hare.

“We’ll organise a match,” said the Editor, standing to suggest that his short time was now at the most limited of premiums. When all is said and done, it’s all cricket.

Tuesday 30th September 2008

“Women don’t read the news,” says Mansoor, over Americanos in India’s only outlet of Costa Coffee. The walls are covered with Italian odes to the coffee bean, as beneath them the only white faces indulge in blueberry sponge cakes masquerading as muffins. “Women only like romance. They just read the fiction. They watch the movies.” He pauses, and reaches in his Diesel jeans for his chortling Nokia, “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Mansoor and I had met in McDonald’s thirty minutes earlier. Always shunning the Golden Arches of Capitalism in London, they had this morning saved me from the men haggling for my attention in Connaught Place. He was the forth Indian man to ask me for a cup of coffee in less than fifteen minutes, but this time I felt it was better to be with someone I half-trusted if only to buy some relative peace and quiet. He was busy assuring me that he had “only Western friends.” He seemed disappointed that my reaction wasn’t more enthusiastic.

“I read the news all the time. Two, three newspapers a day. And the only TV I watch is news.” He nods enthusiastically. “You have to watch what is real, you know?” I politely agree, pondering whether he would be giving the same spiel to a female Indian journalist, or indeed, to any male. We part on the promise that I might come to a Bollywood movie with him next weekend, and that I will take his mobile number. In my time in India I am making a collection of these. I wish bleached-blonde hair worked this well in Britain.

India is the only country in the world where journalism is growing – and it’s growing at a prolific rate. Waiting for a friend to finish a project in the offices of the Hindustan Times this evening, I perused just a tiny fraction of it’s rivals: the Hindu, the Times of India, The Mail Today (which, disconcertingly is the Indian arm of the Daily Mail. Seeing its unmistakeable typeface sent a small shudder down my spine). The Times of India has just overtaken The Sun (!) as having the largest circulation of any English language newspaper in the world (3.8 million), and a readership of 14 million. Indian Vogue has just celebrated its first birthday. India has it’s own People magazine, the Times Group (which owns the Times of India, among others) has just bought Hello! and Grazia, and young women guzzle the European edition much gusto. While in the West, the rabbit loses impetus, the Indian tortoise eases merrily on by. And as Indian women get their fix of fame and fashion, Mansoor gets his antidote to romance.


A few streets away, and a few coffee offers later, I meet Raj, a boy of about fifteen. He’s dressed in a checked shirt and jeans, and, head cocked nonchalantly to the side, asks me if I’m shopping.

Earlier, I’d had an unfortunate incident with an overzealous tuktuk owner and a cartel of emporium workers. The owner, persuading me that the shop I was standing outside was ‘too’spensive’, took me to a ‘good quality, fix-price emporium’ for 10 rupees. Here, I was fawned upon and plied with cups of tea by carpet sellers and women peddling £300 pashminas. I politely refused. When their smiles turned to scowls, I persuaded them that I would buy a 400 rupee (£5) scarf – the cheapest in the shop – but only so that the gods would bless them (and their first customer). After this, I vowed never again to follow the advice of someone on the street who told me it was ‘too’spensive’.

Except Raj, because he doesn’t appear to be working on commission; because he says, dubiously, that he is trying to practise his English; and because he had simply one of the brightest grins I had ever seen. He’d take me home, he said, and he’d point out some shops with ‘good price’ along the way. Walking me through the streets of New Delhi, he tells me that he is on his school holidays, but that he is learning English and that he wants to get a job. What job? “In an office.”

Raj has many ideas about what I should do in life. But mainly, he says, I have to have what he called ‘Indian Mind’. “You must get map so you have Indian Mind,” he says, prancing between lanes of deranged traffic. “You must put away guide book. This is not Indian Mind. People will give you the Five Fingered Direction,” he laughs, splaying his left hand in front of him. “You ask for direction here, they will point anywhere with any finger. Doesn’t matter. When you know this you will have Indian Mind.” (I had already experienced the ‘Five Fingered Direction’ when I asked the guard at our door where India Gate was. Though vaguely visible through some trees to my right, he smiled, nodded and pointed at the sky).

Raj had made me consider how far I was from Indian Mind, map or no map. There was so much that confuses me about this country, and so much that they misunderstand about me in return. Try explaining to the man selling me a turquoise-encrusted sitar that I am technically jobless, saddled with a student loan, and only have a fixed amount of hold luggage on my return flight. And yet I had spent a sweaty, dusty morning resenting these merchants and their long teeth.

As we near home (or so I think), Raj turns and asked me if I would buy him an English textbook. He was finishing school this year, he says, and needs to carry on learning if he wants to get a job. I feel hurt. Somehow I thought that Raj wasn’t one of these men in RayBans and Diesel denims, seeking the kudos of a white girl’s company for coffee. I thought he wasn’t a member of a tuktuk-merchant conspiracy, or a behind-the-counter scowler. I offer to pay him part of it, but he shakes his head: he doesn’t want my money. In fact, he seems just as hurt that I would want to pay him. And it was there I stop, and think, I don’t understand Indian Mind, but I’m going to see if it works. And, as he pulls me towards an old bearded bookseller, I feel strangely benevolent bequeathing Raj with a Hindi-English dictionary (and fairly clever that I’d bartered for it). I reflect on my sense of British propriety and instinctive distaste at the charity-ask. I think, why can’t we trade the things we have: me my 700 rupees (£9) for a textbook, and he, his knowledge of the Indian Mind and the Delhi Map? I feel like there was something I had learned from Raj, something counterintuitive and yet, perhaps, ever so right. This, maybe, was Indian Mind.

And with that, Raj calls me a tuktuk, since, it appeared, he actually has no idea how far we are from my home. He also explains that his name was really Ricky, writes down his cell phone number, and runs off, kicking dust into the air as he goes.