Wednesday, September 27, 2006

If you ever want to feel the pulse of middle-class Indian journalism, step into the Press Club of India. Its here where you will see the blood, swea and tears of hacks congeal. Went with the Office Poet, had 4 large Rum n' Cokes, peanuts and chicken tikka for 220 bucks. A whole lot of guys (all legends in their own regard) were around. Made me understand the mad, 30 cigarette smoking with a single light, alcoholic, depressed trade a lot lot better.

2 Comments:

Blogger my poetry journal said...

as i said, that night too, its middle class delhi journalism with the pretensions of being indian journalism. being close to the centre of power can be more heady than rum n coke! pretensions are bound to follow. you should see some of these guys when they are coming downhill. good lesson in what not do on your way up or on the plateau.

12:32 PM, October 01, 2006  
Blogger jerry said...

I understand. I seemed to be comfortable there as though i've become a part of the race unknowningly.

1:23 PM, October 01, 2006  

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