<p class="bodytext">I remember my first day on the job. I wrote my last MA paper in May 1995 and joined work as a ‘part-time correspondent’ (stringer) in Tumakuru two days later. My monthly compensation was a princely Rs 2,000 (minus Rs 200 in professional tax). I was clueless. Up the creek without a paddle. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I had no reporting experience. I had managed to get a couple of articles published in two newspapers. But that was more ‘creative writing’, hardly news. I was ignorant of what the deliverables were or how to gather news. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Though I had some bookish knowledge of what a reporter does, I had no experience beyond being the editor of the university newsletter. I had no money or the required connections. Being Bengaluru-born and raised, I knew nobody there. All I had was time—plenty of it—to figure out how I would deliver. The district was then politically active, and the city was a developing education hub.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Tumakuru, then, was in stark contrast to what it is now. It was a sleepy city with too little consequence in the grand design of things. It woefully lacked basic amenities. It was bereft of a reliable water supply or an underground sewage system. I bathed in hard water drawn from a borewell. The sewage went into a soak pit. There were no city buses. I lived in a dingy room in the city’s suburbs and shared the bathroom with another tenant. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I trekked four kilometres to the city’s news centre—the offices of the deputy commissioner and superintendent of police—every morning and gathered what I thought was news. The other primary news source was the Zilla Panchayat (ZP) office. The ZP CEO and I became pals later.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Initially, my fact-deprived dispatches were phrased immaturely. But I pressed on to learn the ropes quickly, thanks to the benevolent mofussil desk and news editor at HQ. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Today’s journalists may be interested in knowing how mofussil reports were sent back then. My newspaper had given me a free DTO (District Telecom Office) card. At the end of the day, I would go to the DTO and fax my report—handwritten in all capital letters (for clarity). I had no typewriter. There was no email or mobile phone. Social media? Inconceivable! </p>.<p class="bodytext">Two months of this, and then I got my first lucky break—a news feature. I was naturally better at that than hard news stories. Half a dozen of these followed. Suddenly, Tumakuru was in the news, and a leading TV channel rushed to the city to capture the story live (after reading mine). </p>.<p class="bodytext">My stint in Tumakuru ended abruptly, and I returned to the capital seeking greener pastures. But I fondly remember my friends there. They were genial and appreciably supportive. I recently learned that a fellow journalist working for a local paper died young. Hence the Middle.</p>
<p class="bodytext">I remember my first day on the job. I wrote my last MA paper in May 1995 and joined work as a ‘part-time correspondent’ (stringer) in Tumakuru two days later. My monthly compensation was a princely Rs 2,000 (minus Rs 200 in professional tax). I was clueless. Up the creek without a paddle. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I had no reporting experience. I had managed to get a couple of articles published in two newspapers. But that was more ‘creative writing’, hardly news. I was ignorant of what the deliverables were or how to gather news. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Though I had some bookish knowledge of what a reporter does, I had no experience beyond being the editor of the university newsletter. I had no money or the required connections. Being Bengaluru-born and raised, I knew nobody there. All I had was time—plenty of it—to figure out how I would deliver. The district was then politically active, and the city was a developing education hub.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Tumakuru, then, was in stark contrast to what it is now. It was a sleepy city with too little consequence in the grand design of things. It woefully lacked basic amenities. It was bereft of a reliable water supply or an underground sewage system. I bathed in hard water drawn from a borewell. The sewage went into a soak pit. There were no city buses. I lived in a dingy room in the city’s suburbs and shared the bathroom with another tenant. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I trekked four kilometres to the city’s news centre—the offices of the deputy commissioner and superintendent of police—every morning and gathered what I thought was news. The other primary news source was the Zilla Panchayat (ZP) office. The ZP CEO and I became pals later.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Initially, my fact-deprived dispatches were phrased immaturely. But I pressed on to learn the ropes quickly, thanks to the benevolent mofussil desk and news editor at HQ. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Today’s journalists may be interested in knowing how mofussil reports were sent back then. My newspaper had given me a free DTO (District Telecom Office) card. At the end of the day, I would go to the DTO and fax my report—handwritten in all capital letters (for clarity). I had no typewriter. There was no email or mobile phone. Social media? Inconceivable! </p>.<p class="bodytext">Two months of this, and then I got my first lucky break—a news feature. I was naturally better at that than hard news stories. Half a dozen of these followed. Suddenly, Tumakuru was in the news, and a leading TV channel rushed to the city to capture the story live (after reading mine). </p>.<p class="bodytext">My stint in Tumakuru ended abruptly, and I returned to the capital seeking greener pastures. But I fondly remember my friends there. They were genial and appreciably supportive. I recently learned that a fellow journalist working for a local paper died young. Hence the Middle.</p>