In black & white... newsdesk nuggets
Derek Almeida
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Derek Almeida, besides being one of Goa's finest and most
aesthetically-balanced deskmen, steals time to write humour columns whenever
possible. This product of Goan journalism has won the respect of his juniors
by his honesty at work, his ability to stand by his subordinates, as well as
his considerable if under-appreciated talent. Memorable headings like
'Sirsat elected, Tomazinho selected' (after a controversial election to the
Goa Speaker's post) are credited to Derek, as every self-respecting deskman
of that era in this state would recall.
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When I joined the Herald in 1985, the news desk
consisted of two unvarnished desks and three very
uncomfortable chairs. The chief-sub's chair was
distinguishable from the others because it had wheels.
It also had a back-rest and seat fashioned from woven
plastic which had given way due to continuous use by
Anthony Fernandes alias Anton, Frederick Noronha alias
Rico and sometimes Francis Rebeiro alias Choppy. I was
one of those who did not have an alias.
Those were the days when the PTI and UNI machines were
hardly two metres away from the news-desk and Rico had
invented an ingenious way of preventing the clatter
from getting to him. He used to stuff paper in his
ears, because it was cheaper than cotton.
I also remember Anton completing his work before dinner
on the night shift and reading a novel while waiting
for galley-proofs. How nice it was to be chief-sub back
then. I thought, one day when I reach that post I too
would read novels. When I finally made it, the system
had changed and there was no time to read novels. So I
do have some regrets.
Rico, by the way, was very possessive of the TV which
projected black-and-white images of the news. He never
let us watch anything more that the news and, if I
remember well, used to take out the `on-off' knob and
stash it in his pocket till the end of the shift. He
was, and still is, a work-is-worship chap. Rico was
also the only man on the news-desk who could type with
the speed of a steno.
We also had a thin wiry fellow named Madhu who made tea
and did some odd jobs like taking edited to the
composing room on the mezzanine floor and oiling the A4
paper print-outs to make them transparent. Every time
he bunked work he would return the next day with a
mournful look and announce that some relative had died.
Five days later he would conveniently kill another
member and disappear for another two days. This never
stopped because he had and extended family of relatives
comprising several aunts, uncles, aunts-in-law,
uncles-in-law, cousins and god knows what. He never
followed any pattern and killed them at random. Some of
his relatives died several times. By the time he left,
I am told, he had bumped off almost all the members of
his family.
I can't remember if Madhu made good tea or not. To me,
a cup of tea at work was a welcome luxury, especially
because it was free. I say this because Herald was then
paying trainee-subs Rs 400 per month. Not enough to
keep body and soul together. So, when I was confirmed
and my salary jumped to Rs 750, I moved into a new
economic bracket of professionals who could afford to
buy Maggie two-minute noodles. The Rs 750 put an extra
bounce in my walk and the chin vent a notch higher,
even though I still had to depend on my Dad for clothes.
The only reporter we had was Rajesh Singh who was very
good at chess and devoted a great deal of his time
playing Rajan Narayan, the editor. Apart from his
writing skills, he was adept in getting other subs to
buy him cups of tea.
It was at the Herald that I first met Elston Soares
alias Paku (some years later, we met again at Newslink,
the Belgaum-published English-language sister
publication of Tarun Bharat). He had a huge grin, wrote
with his left hand, ate with his left hand and edited
copy with his left hand. In short, he was a `leftie'.
He had an interesting sense of humour. I am told he
coined the term `Romi-Marathi' for the language written
by some correspondents.
Apart from the tea, another luxury enjoyed by
sub-editors living in and around Panjim was a home drop
at night in the office jeep. On one or two occasions I
remember being dropped in the Patrao's black Mercedes
to the Don Bosco Hostel. This luxury was withdrawn
after we formed an employees union several years later.
This was also the time when I met Alexyz, the
cartoonist. He came across as a very friendly person
with a benign face covered with a lot of hair, mostly
black; a very hearty laugh and a penchant for practical
jokes. I remember him standing on St Tome street and
directing all passersby to the Herald. The poor souls
would enter the office with blank looks not knowing
what had hit them.
Those were the days when the post office was a bigger
landmark and Herald was referred to as `behind the post
office'. So Alexyz once sent us a cartoon enclosed in
an envelope. It said: 'To Rajan Narayan, behind the
post office; From Alexyz, behind the bars.' That was Alexyz.
A few weeks after I was formally accepted at
trainee-sub-editor a local farmer, this was before the
advent of progressive farmers, or whatever they call
them these days, horticulturists and what not... So, a
local farmer came to the office with a very long
snake-gourd. Since volunteers were hard to come by, I
was ordered to pose with the vegetable. The next day my
photo was published on the inside page of the Herald. I
did not know whether to feel proud or embarrassed.
Today, I still don't know.
After a year, I returned to Belgaum and two years later
when I returned the Herald had changed. Rajan had a
bigger cabin. Norman Dantas had a smaller cabin and
Gustav Fernandes the manager had a cabin of
intermediate size. The News Desk had morphed from two
unvarnished desks to a large one with a sunmica top.
Now it looked more like a cheap dining table from the
Holy Spirit Church fair. It was was positioned between
Rajan's and Norman's cabins and under the altar.
Rico had left and Anton had become a reporter. The
others had left too. Wilfred Pereira, who was a
stringer from Margao, had become chief-sub. Willy, as
he was known, was a very organized man. His drawer,
which was located at one end of the news-desk, was
neatly kept and contained almost everything like pens,
scales, soap. It was like a mini-stationery shop. I
always suspected Willy also had a tin-can opener and a
Swiss army knife stashed somewhere in that drawer.
Willy also had a lovely handwriting.
It was during this second stint that I met Ivo Vaz from
Varca. He was blessed with cat feet and always walked
into the office with an old airline bag without making
a sound. Ivo looked dead serious all the time, even
during picnics. He once organized a picnic for Herald
staffers at Varca, where he sat in one chair throughout
the day. When we left, he was fast asleep. Ivo also had
a strange way of editing copy which reminded me of an
automobile assembly line. After editing each news story
he would attach a rectangular piece of blank paper with
a pin to the left-hand corner and keep it aside. After
piling up several copies in this manner he would start
giving each story a heading. Ivo had an antique olive
green Morris Minor, which he treasured, and a daughter
whom he loved. Everytime his daughter recovered from
some ailment he would treat all of us to ice cream,
with our peon Jose acting a facilitator in the whole
process. Jose would do anything for a free cake, ice
cream or anything edible.
Then there was Bone-Crusher Agnel who took pleasure in
squeezing the life out of anyone who made the mistake
of shaking hands with him. My hand some how survived
Agnel's vice-like grip.
Another sub-editor who caught my attention was
Cornelius Gomes who worked on the sports desk with
Nelson Dias. Cornelius always sported a beard and
mustache which covered most of his face and gave him a
Ringo Starr look. Cornelius also played football for
the Herald team and had this 'queer' technique of
tackling rough players. When ever he encountered a
player leaning on him to head the ball or digging an
elbow in his ribs, he would tickle the chap's backside.
This technique proved to be more effective than the
ref's whistle.
By the time Herald completed its tenth year we had a
formidable team with players like Tulsidas, Jason,
Alaric, Jose, Domnic, Pradeep, our platemaker, and
Vilas Sarang who never made it to the team. Umesh alias
Umi, our sleepy paster, was a live wire in the goal.
With Choppy as manager we were willing to take on anyone.
On one of our anniversaries Choppy set up a match with
the Navhind Times. Two or three days prior to the match
we were shocked to discover that NT would be fielding a
few first division players from the Dempo team. We
nearly suffered a stroke. But then Choppy always had
this never-say-die attitude. In a crisis he would take
two deep inhalations from an anti-asthma pump which he
always carried in his pocket, and, in seconds go from
Bruce Banner to The Hulk. In a day, Choppy's
never-say-die attitude spread to everyone and off we
marched to the Don Bosco school ground in our new
uniforms for the slaughter.
Guess what? We won.
That was not all. Choppy loved ceremonies and had
arranged an elaborate function with a chief guest,
prizes and speeches. After the speeches the Herald team
captained by Tulsidas (I think) went up and received
their medals. Everyone who had adorned the Herald
colours got a medal. Next was the turn of the Navhind
Times team to collect their medals. Half way through
this process Choppy realized that he had bought less
medals. We hit the panic buttons. But then, in the
Herald you have to be resourceful to survive. We
quickly formed a human chain and started passing medals
presented to the Herald team back to the chief guest.
It was a smooth operation. Months later, when the time
came for Navhind Times to celebrate its anniversary,
they did not dare play a football match with us.
I also remember playing a football match on the beach
during a picnic at Candolim. Our team had earned a
penalty and Pamela D'Mello decided to take it. (Yes,
she played football). By the way, picnic matches are
scaled down versions of the world cup. The goals are
tiny, the playing field is small and there's no ref.
Before the penalty could be taken, a dispute broke out
between us and Ashley do Rosario over how the penalty
should be taken. Ashley grabbed the ball and insisted
that the spot kick should be taken with the heel and
with the player facing his back to the goal. I don't
know where Ashley found this rule, but we were aware of
Pamela's prowess as football player, and hence,
objected. Those were pre-mobile phone days, so there
was no way of contacting FIFA for their take on the
rule. Finally after much cajoling and arm twisting,
Ashley relented and allowed Pamela to take the kick.
The ball was placed five feet from the goal which was
one-and-half foot wide. Tulsidas, our captain, who was
desperate for a goal gave Pamela a thorough briefing on
how to take the kick. Next he drew a line in the sand
starting from the ball to the center of the goal line
to make it easier for Pamela. Ashley did not object. We
all stood back and waited. Pamela positioned herself
behind the ball, lifted her right foot and kicked with
all her might. The ball missed the goal by three feet.
That was how Pamela missed her chance to enter the
Herald football hall of fame. She went on to be a very
good reporter.
This was also the picnic when Ashley drove from Candolim
to Betim in his Fiat without releasing the handbrakes.
Somewhere during the eight years I lived and worked in
the Herald, a fellow villager named Lirio Vasconsales
found employ as a sub-editor. This wiry chap had a face
full of hair and was a die hard Navhind Times fan. He
used to fold the NT and stuff it into his trouser
pocket, to be retrived for leisure reading on the last
bus to Margao. This habit earned him a sobriquet --
pocket Navhind Times. Lirio also possessed a
matter-of-fact sense of humour. One day Lirio was
feverishly editing copy with a ball pen refill even
though he had an empty ball pen in his pocket. Sports
editor Nelson Dias, who happened to pass by, asked
Lirio: "Arre baba, why don't you put the refill in the
pen and use it?" Lirio looked up at him through his
glasses and said: "No time". This was the one and only
time I saw Nelson hit for a six.
In those days before the lazer printer was perfected by
HP the A4 sized `butter` paper used to get `jammed`
inside the machine very often. During one such occasion
Lirio who had been observing the machine for over
half-an-hour in the composing department turned to me
and said: "We insert butter paper in the machine, so
how do we get paper jam?"
My first encounter with Rajan Narayan was not
awe-inspiring. Rajan was never a dresser and, on the
few occasions when he managed to get into a long
sleeved shirt and ironed trousers, he looked quite
smart. The first time I saw him for one of the
anniversaries when he came with a slightly over-sized
navy blue coat. The next occasion was when he returned
from Dubai on the first Air-India direct flight from
the Gulf. His attire never bothered him or any of the staff.
Rajan had two indulgencies -- smoking and chewing
`Halls' sweets. And the smoking nearly burnt him out
one day. I was in the office that day when a couple
arrived to see Rajan. As usual he lit a cigarette and
was puffing away when the couple noticed smoke under
the table. It didn't take long for Rajan to realize
that his trouser pocket was smouldering. He thrust his
hand into the pocket to put out the fire and in the
process burnt his fingers. After a little slapping here
and there the fire was put out. I was quickly summoned
and told to buy a tube of Burnol. Rajan never believed
in moderation. He squeezed half the tube on his fingers
and continued conversation with the couple with the
yellow paste all over his hands. I don't know how his
pocket caught fire, but I think Rajan absent mindedly
shoved the match in his pocket instead of the ashtray.
There were a lot of other interesting incidents that
happened in the Herald, some nice, some not so nice.
Like how we played mandicot all night in the composing
room or how we celebrated on Independence eve with a
bottle of whiskey and nearly got caught or the
formation of the Union, or the time when the electrical
system short circuited and Pamela, Alaric and Paul
filed stories in candle light, or Rico's hoi-te.
Perhaps some other time? Perhaps, for the twenty-fifth
anniversary e-book.