Here's looking at you kid!

Though I wasn’t born then, I think this line was written for me, or those who share a similar deceptively ‘little girl’ look like me. So as my 27th birthday comes closer, I wonder how many years more will I have to listen to this line or some variation of it. For all practical purposes, I look the same as I did around 10 years ago, which though one would say is a great thing for a girl, has also had its own negative aspects for me.

The first time I heard I don’t look my age was when my long lost cousin met me around 10 years ago. He said you look so young, a naïve me then replied, good na, when I will be 30 no one will guess I am thirty, that will be so cool. Of course back then I thought that I would look somewhat grown up by the time I cross 23-24. Alas, that was not to be and it has caused me endless embarrassment at times.

Like when in my PG course we visited the sets of Kaun Banega Crorepati and the guy at the security wouldn’t initially let me in, because he wanted to ensure I was above 18. Thankfully there was another classmate who looked as small as me so I atleast had a fellow sufferer of the ‘Who’s that kid syndrome’. Then once again in college there was this sweet boy lets call him V, who I had become good friends with. V was in first year college and so was I, only I was in PG first year. We enjoyed joking around and my room mate used to always say he has a crush on you, to which I would say gosh he is a kid, come on and he knows I am older. Wrong. I had said first year mass communication course and he thought it was a graduation course. I still remember the day he actually got to know that I was 4 years older. I shall call upon you to use your vivid imagination to picture how his face must have looked, because the mixture of confusion and slight disappointment at losing a potential girlfriend is something I cant describe too well. Some years down the line, a boyfriend too happened to tell me that the first time he saw me he thought I was ‘just an intern.’

‘Just an intern’ is another thing I have had to face a lot. TV is a game of perception more than anything. And there have been times when I have not been taken seriously despite giving enough and accurate information because apparently the so called viewers think I am a kid so well I couldn’t be saying anything worthwhile. What could the kid possibly know? Then I have had comments on my blog page that are some form of veiled disbelief of my credentials, something to the effect of ‘despite being so young, you seem to have a deep understanding of the issue’ Or take the I-know-it-all-and-hate-it-all gentleman from Shivaji Park, who very ungraciously aired his grievance on how news channels hire these ‘young college’ girls to do stories and that is why the content is going down the drains. WTF? Haven’t they heard that age (in this case perceived age) is just a number? Then there is also the problem of having to either shop at the kids’ section, skipping branded readymade stuff altogether or the hunt for the perfect alteration tailor.

But the kid look has its own advantages. People tend to act sweet around you because they don’t want to trouble the little child. Policemen that I meet on the field always are very sweet and polite, mostly out of disbelief that such a little thing is working all alone in Mumbai. Neighbours become your guardian angels when they see that the poor young thing is managing it all alone and is such a quiet and ‘mature’ child. And when some person is acting difficult on field, you can always make a cry baby face and say please sir, bite de do, mere boss varna bahut naaraz honge. Fleet drivers always offer to carry the tripod for you because main hoon na madam, aap thak jaoge. And one of the compliments I cherish the most, given by a man whom I consider to be my best teacher was, ‘Good things come in small packets.’ That should be enough to shut all you morons who crack jokes at the expense of my ‘littleness’.
So as April draws near, I am starting to feel the first signs of denial about aging. 27? Really am I getting that old? Nah, m just the little kid, aint I?

Addiction

It had been a year since he had held her. Memories of serenading her flooded his vision, how he would hold her neck close to his face and drink in her scent. He looked at his phone and wondered if he should call for her. Would she be available now? He had even deleted the number. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

She had been his refuge from the chaos in his world. He remembered how he would drown himself in her, burying his sorrows in her. She was the only high in his life, the best thing after every tiring day. She had never failed him. Soon it was difficult for him to imagine life without her company. She was the crutch that helped him face the cruel world and kill his demons.

The relationship was perfect until one day he realised just how much he depended on her. He could not see her that day and it drove him mad. He could feel the shivers, the fear, the frustration and there was no one to take away his pain that day, no one to make the day good again. And when he realised he needed her so, he started hating her. Yes, hatred and a lot of anger. How could he become such a slave to her? He was a man bound by nothing, so there was no way he could be bound by her. His independence was everything to him, he held on to it with all his pride. So he decided he would abandon her, nothing should have so much power over him. His relationship with her was because everyone else had ruled his life, she was the only one who gave unquestioningly. So if now she was gaining power, he had to run. He had to.

He ran. Many times, but each time he would return with a new found intense thirst for her. He would bury himself even deeper into her, he wanted to forget, forget not just the chaos, but also the time he had spent apart. But each time after he returned, he felt worse because it meant she had won. She still had that f*ing hold on him. And that’s how the cycle of abuse started functioning. He would pretend he didn’t need her, that it was she who seduced him everytime. He would play hide and seek with her. But he knew it was not her, it was him, he knew it every moment he spent with and away from her. He hated himself, no he hated her for being so powerful. And what was worse everytime he would reject her and then return feeling helpless, she would still be where he had left her. Loyal and as sweetly seductive as ever. What was it about her that he couldn’t let go?

Then one day he returned after his self imposed exile, burying himself deep into her, so deep he couldn’t feel much, so deep he was almost numb. But the chaos wouldn’t go, now the chaos included her too, voices shouting in his head, accusing him of being a weakling when it came to her. He decided enough was enough, there was no point in trying to leave her, because she would still be there if he returned. So what should he do? He had to survive this and he had to win this. He needed to destroy her for his own sanity. Yes he needed to end her, that was the only option. He worked up the courage and he crushed her, that was the only way to take away her power. Hearing the commotion, his servant came running. The servant was aghast at what he saw. But wordlessly he picked up the pieces of broken glass of his favourite wine brand. She was now just a piece of trash. That was a year ago.
As he glanced at the still empty cabinet, he let out a sigh full of yearning. But he knew he couldn’t go back. As he walked towards his bedroom he remembered the doctor’s wise words – Sometimes what you want and love, is not good for you.

Car-nama

It was the 31st and we had planned to go to Lonavala to welcome the new year. We were supposed to start at 9 pm from Bandra court. At 8 30 the friend who organised it gets a call from our hired driver, "Saab mereko police ne BKC ke paas pakad liya hai." We go like what, why? "Saab woh main apni girlfriend ke saath gaadi mein baitha tha toh police aake hamko pakad liya." Talk about PDA. Amidst confusion over whether we would go for the trip or not our group that had quite a few crime reporters in it called up the policemen apologising profusely for our 'jawaan hai galti ho gaya' driver. Finally thanks to the goodwill of the crime reporters they let him off with a small fine and we could set out, albeit late to our trip. I remember ribbing him all through the trip about the incident, and quite unabashedly he said, "madam aadha ghanta tha aap logon ke aane mein to maine socha ki usko bula loon waise bhi driving ki wajah se time nahin milta." But that was not the end of the excitement. He was a 20 something driving at top speed on the express highway, so naturally we had to have a tire burst at the speed of 140 kms/hour, during which his hands went wobbly as he screeched in a I-am-here-to-control-the-situation-but-dont-know-how-to voice "Kuch nahin hoga, kuch nahin hoga." This incident probably takes the cake when it comes to my experiences with fleet drivers.

In my two and a half years of TV reporting, every day is filled with experiences with fleet drivers, some witty, some cocky, some funny and some sorely lacking. Breaking news and Khabar har keemat par demand that you get a driver who knows the basic layout of the city and yet more than once I have had drivers who have asked in crucially important times, "Madam CST kidhar padta hai?" WTF? These episodes have always resulted in me breaking off the thin barriers of my patience and yelling at the fleet operators back in office.

Then there are those drivers who love flouting rules. They cant keep lanes, they dont understand traffic signals and they love to speed in cars with faulty brakes. So naturally the neighbourhood Pandu gets hold of them. Sometimes when breaking news demands a hassle free movement, we flash our press cards and tell the cops that we are in a hurry, some cops understand and others get even more wild on seeing the press cards, "Media ke ho to kuch bhi kar loge?" The corrupt ones however steal a glance to see if this interaction is being recorded on camera or not. Then at some other times we let the driver face the music. In such scenarios either of the two things happen, the driver proves to be adept at handling the situation or we and the cop come to know that the dude has more offences listed against him than we could have imagined. "Saab license kal doosra saab ne jabti kar liya, chudane ka hai", "Saab license nahin hai", "Woh saab paper aaj hamara malik ne nahin diya", "Kya Saab aap mereko pakda aur usko jaane diya, woh pehle signal toda to main bhi peeche peeche aaya", "Saab aap Jadhav saheb ko jaante hain, mere maama hai", are some of the common answers but I have even had a young driver who cried in front of the traffic cop pleading to be let off. And when he finally was we thought he would be grateful, instead he took to the gear and started smiling mischievously.

Then there are those who have just learnt to drive or are too old to drive. The effect is that they are so scared of everything, applying brakes, changing gears, absolutely everything, so much so that you fear for your life. But one common characteristic with all of them is that despite not knowing a thing they speed, which scares the passengers even more. Once in fact, the driver was so bad that my cameraperson who thankfully knew how to drive had to take over. Or else we would have surely ended up in hospital that day. Another driver was understandably scared on the night of 27th November and dropped me off somewhere in Colaba at midnight rather than taking me all the way to Nariman house. It took me half an hour to find Nariman house on that scary night with no one around me. I thanked my stars I wasnt a girl roaming the streets in Delhi that night, strange how roaming the streets on the night of a terror attack seemed safer than Delhi to me then.

But there are also drivers who are a great help. Some of the drivers double up as camera assistants, carrying your tripods, helping you around. Some of them are more informed about what is going on in the city than the news channels. Other older drivers give you insights into the city's history and psyche that no one else would give you. And some others are an asset just because they know all the routes and take you to the right place even in the dead of the night. Some of them help you with the local language and some of them know the best and cheapest roadside eateries to take you to. Well enough said now, I gotta go and ask the fleet for a cab to take me to a shoot to far off Mulund, hope I have a good driver today. Oh, did I mention my last driver had the loudest and awfullest ringtone ever or about the one who plays 90's loser songs all the time??

Can you let go?

Has it been raining break ups or what? Suddenly in the last few months so many of my friends have ‘broken up’ that I seem to have heard about all sorts of reasons for break ups and seen all sorts of ways people deal with them. For a person with limited actual experience, I think its great I got to hear of these things, I atleast know what not to do now. So one of those usual coffee discussions about the big R word and my friend says, ‘So you don’t believe that there are people who cant let go of their love?’

Honestly, I think we can do whatever we want, if we put our mind to it. So yes, we can let go of love too. But with the numerous second hand break up experiences and my limited experiences, this is what I have learnt of people who don’t let go. Prime reasons are as follows.

1. Fear : What if I don’t get anyone else, what if its not the same as this? Frankly these are tricks your mind is playing on you. There are 6 billion people in this world, surely you can get someone else.
2. My pain is my badge of honor : You wear your pain on your sleeve. You tell the world how much you have suffered and how despite all that you are still surviving. You don’t let go coz it satisfies this need of yours to tell others that you have gone through shit and still you are surviving bravely (?). Now unless you can write poems like Ghalib (a famous Urdu poet) out of that hurt or you can build a Taj Mahal out of that pain, its not worth holding on.
3. Guilt trap : For some others it is a matter of revenge and reverse control. They want to make the other person feel bad about what they did. So they act all hurt and hold on to that hurt and bitterness all their life. Even if they get someone else who is actually better they wont allow themselves to be loved, because then they would lose that righteous anger of theirs.
   
4. My love is the purest : I happen to know some of these people. They don’t let go coz they think that they are the ones who are responsible to prove it to the world that true love still exists. You ask them why are they torturing themselves, they tell you how can they let go of true love? They are proving just to themselves that their love is pure and divine. By no means am I saying that true, honest love doesn’t exist. Thing is you don’t have to prove its existence. And if you have to prove it to someone, seriously are they worth your time?

And all of these people are uncomfortable with their status. You can forever hear them saying that they want to move on, that they want to get out of it or that they want to let that person stop affecting them, but honestly they don’t want to do any of it. They want to hold on for all the above mentioned reasons. So to all of them, people decide what you really want and then just stick to it and more importantly, take responsibility for what you decided. If you want to keep crying, then realise that you made that choice. If you want to get out of it, decide that and don’t look back. In the end, life works itself out.

My 160 sq. ft. on Mumbai

Two cents are not of much use in Mumbai. What is really worthwhile is a having a small 160 sq ft apartment for yourself. I happen to be lucky enough to have one on rent, happily given to me by a Marathi Manoos and hence here is my 160 sq ft on this city.

2009 has been a tough year for the city. Living in the shadow of 26/11, recession and parochial violence, the city once again endured a lot. Add to this, poor rains in a city that always makes headlines for its torrential rains.

So 2010 started on a bleak note for the city. As the days progressed things went from bad to worse. The city’s water crisis has become a major cause of concern for the ‘aam aadmi’. Every day most of us wake up with or even before the sun to fill up our buckets and tubs so that we have enough water to last through the day. The state irrigation minister has for the time being diverted some water from the irrigation department for drinking water purposes, to keep the water cut from increasing to more than the current 15%. Then there are the reports that two hydel power plants will have to be shut during the summer due to water shortage. Which means some more power cuts in areas that already have many hours of load shedding daily. The prices of vegetables are already high. For singles like me who live mostly on take away food, these hikes have resulted in more than 2k rise in our spending, not something we can afford in times of recession. Summer would mean irrigation problems and further shortage in vegetables raising the prices even more. It is going to be one tough summer this year for Mumbaikars.

So every day while I scan the newspapers I think that there would be some good news to tell me that the summer would be better. That there is some policy change, some statement, some tussle in political circles over these issues that touch me everyday. But everyday I hear of andolans for North Indians, Marathis and every other thing but no word on how the city is to survive this summer. And in the midst of this all, the leases of many occupants of my building too will expire, which could mean some more money to be shelled out. So this summer I wonder, along with my Marathi neighbours, if there would even be a 160 sq ft of borrowed ownership that we could claim in Mumbai, while politicians and socialites debate on who the whole city belongs to.

Sona

It was 5 am. One of the busiest docks in Mumbai, Bhaucha Dhakka was already up and running. No one knows how long has this port followed the same routine. The rush starts at the Dockyard station where hundreds alight from distant suburbs. You could see them running across the foot over bridge every morning, men and women of all sizes rushing about their daily business. Daily wage labourers, fishermen and fisherwomen rush to board the shuttle service BEST no. 41, waiting at the end of the overbridge, that takes them to the Dhakka as the locals call it.

The dock itself smells of all things dank and deep. Fresh and dried fish being traded everywhere, some newspaper vendors and the quaint snack shops complete the picture. A place with an ancient routine and yet some newness everyday. The old wooden benches seemed to have stories of conversations of ages ago. Every part of the dock, a piece of history itself.

It was in this ancient place that Bhola had set up a brand new tea stall. He was one of the many enterprising North Indian migrants in the city, trying to make a place for themselves in the city of dreams. Everyday the hustle and bustle reminded him just how much he loved to be a part of this city that never slept. He had just finished attending to two deck hands of one of the many catamarans that ferried people when Sona jumped onto the table at the stall. Sona was one of the many cats loitering at the dock. Apart from stealing fish from the many baskets kept at the dock, Sona loved to lap up the milk that Bhola offered her everyday. She had been a weak kitten when she had walked in one rainy day. Bhola had taken pity on her and had fed her hot milk and since then it had become a daily routine. In a friendless city, Bhola and Sona were what each of them had for themselves.

But today was the day when this delicate friendship was set to change forever. As Bhola was stroking Sona, he heard a voice calling out. ‘Suniye, do chai dijiye.’ Bhola turned to find two college students standing at his stall. The owner of the voice, a beautiful looking young girl. The freshness of her face seemed odd at this run down dock. A sense of it all being unreal descended on Bhola. ‘Do chai bola’, her voice shook him out of his thoughts. The girl was looking slightly irritated at his lackadaisical attitude. Bhola quickly got back to work and gave the girls the tea. Sona seemed to be whimpering loudly in the backdrop and the girls threw a dirty look at the cat and then an accusing glance at Bhola for letting dirty animals into the stall as they left. ‘Safai ka dhyaan bhi nahin rakhte yahaan ke log’, the girl muttered as she left.

That brief exchange changed something within Bhola. Try as he might he couldn’t get the girl out of his head for the rest of the day. At night as he fell asleep in his little slum room, he wondered if he would see her again. It was strange for him to feel infatuated so soon.

The next day was business as usual at the Dhakka. The same sea of humanity going about their work. For Bhola though it was a different day. It was a day filled with anticipation for him. Would she come again? He was serving tea as usual but his mind was restless. Well it didn’t seem as she would come, but Sona was there right on time. As the cat settled herself on the table as usual, Bhola felt a mild irritation for the first time. He really looked at the smudges of dirt on the table her paws were leaving, the greyish brown fur and the slight smell that emanated from the cat. ‘Maybe the girls were right. I should discourage this cat from coming here’, he said to himself. He poured Sona an extra hot saucer of milk today. The cat whined slightly with the first lick, but instead of going away, she just settled herself for the milk to cool a bit and continue feeding herself. This irritated Bhola a little more. Just as his irritation was mounting he heard that voice again. His heart almost jumped with joy.

The girls were there again. Seemed that they came from some village near Rewas and had taken admission in a Mumbai college. The girls lacked the finesse of the South Mumbai college girls, but made up for it with the freshness of their faces. Bhola could not help but stare at this girl, but like every infatuated man, he would look away if she looked in his direction.

Soon it became a routine. Bhola would give the girls their morning tea and would spend the rest of the day mooning over the girl who he had by now gathered was called Deepa. Deepa would come each day with her friend and Bhola started connecting every good thing happening in his life with her. His tea stall seemed to be getting more popular and he felt it was all because he started his day looking at her beautiful face. But one thing that bothered him was Sona. The more he started liking Deepa, the more he wanted to banish the dirty cat from his stall. Invariably Sona would end up coming to the shop at the same time as Deepa. This irritated him no end. He tried hot milk, putting some salt in the milk everything that would irritate the cat, but she seemed to be somehow tied to his shop and wouldn’t leave.

His nights now were full of two thoughts. How to get closer to Deepa and how to get rid of the cat. One day though it seemed that his wish was granted. Deepa finally spoke to him. Though it was just a casual chat about how the weather was turning slightly chilly and how his tea was a life saver in this weather, it was all Bhola needed to feel over the moon. He started thinking Deepa liked him too. This pleased him but even that day while leaving the girls threw a dirty look at the cat. He shooed Sona away as he smiled sheepishly at the departing girls.

From that day onwards he started giving Deepa and her friend something free with the chai, a toffee, a piece of cake and when the girls asked he said that it was because they were his loyal customers. The weather was getting cooler and though Mumbai didn’t really have a winter, early mornings could be quite chilly. Sona seemed to spend more time at the stall trying to get some warmth from the heat of the burning stove. Bhola was no really losing it with the cat. Her presence was like some bad omen to him. If on some day he had a fight with some customer or someone commented on something lacking in his shop, he blamed it all on the cat’s unlucky presence. Deepa and her friend continued to frequent the shop and one day while he was shooing away the cat she told him, ‘Why don’t you get a stick tomorrow and beat her away? The cat is really a nuisance.’ You know I had never thought of this, thanks for the suggestion’, Bhola replied.

The next day when Sona pounced on the table, Bhola was ready he took out a stick and beat the cat and chased her away. Sona squealed and whimpered and ran away. It was a very cold day and the cat really seemed to have needed the hot milk, but Bhola was determined that he would not let the cat spoil the cleanliness of his shop. She could get the milk from somewhere else. The cat had received enough blows from his stick. When Bhola returned he was greeted with the smiling faces of Deepa and her friend who had seen him chasing away the cat. ‘Good you did that’, she said. ‘Anything for my loyal customers,’ Bhola replied with a smile. Deepa’s affirmation wiped away the remaining guilt of sending the cat to fend for herself on such a cold, damp day.

After the girls left, Bhola realised that one of the customers had left a bag at his shop. He seemed to have gone in the direction of the bus stop. Conscientious as he was Bhola asked the newspaper vendor who sat near his stall to look after it while he rushed to the bus stop to find the customer. He finally found him waiting for the bus. The man thanked him profusely for returning the bag. Bhola declined the offer of being paid for his honesty and was going back to his shop when he heard a familiar giggle. ‘That tea boy is really smitten with you Deepa, he does anything for you’, the friend was saying. Bhola stopped in his tracks, he wanted to hear what Deepa would say to that. He was standing slightly far away and the girls had not yet noticed him. Deepa was giggling, ‘Yeah I noticed that the first day itself, the way he was looking at me. I just felt like playing along. He looked like such an idiotic infatuated puppy. And look don’t we get freebies everyday from him. I am sure someday if we have some problem at the dock, he will come running to help. I don’t want to be mean, but you cant help but string along such fools’ she laughed as she walked away.

Bhola’s ears were ringing as he returned to his stall. It was like someone had just taken out his heart and squeezed it of all the blood. The disillusionment was terrible. ‘And it was for her that you beat up that poor creature?’ His guilty head asked him constantly. He shut his shop and went about looking for the cat, but she was nowhere to be found. Disheartened he went home early that evening, but couldn’t sleep a wink. The next day he was up early and reached the dock to his stall. He kept on looking out for the cat but couldn’t find her. Just then the newspaper vendor came to set up his stall. He looked at Bhola and said, ‘That cat wont trouble you anymore. I just saw her bloody body on the curb of the road. They say she was run over by a car sometime ago. A dead cat, not a good omen to see early in the morning on your way to work.’ Tears were Bhola’s only reply.

Censored within the fourth estate

Disclaimer : This is a post written after a friend was 'Tharoored' recently by his publication for his use of social networking. If it is slightly politically incorrect or even incoherent, apologies. This is just a personal view.

Now why am I putting out a disclaimer already? Well its thanks to what happened to the friend I mentioned earlier in the post. We are a status message generation I could say. So this friend of mine, who writes a no-holds barred, sarcastically yours blog loves to proclaim his world view once in a while. He puts up something about a recent much talked about event on FB, the only glitch is that it involves some higher ups in his organisation. Suddenly he is branded as a rebel without a cause and asked to change his status, which due to professional pressures, he eventually does. Now I am not taking sides, not saying whether he was right or wrong. But it made me wonder how insecure we fourth estate people ourselves can be of the one thing we keep talking about upholding - 'Freedom of expression'. My friend had been ‘Tharoored’, as he put it.

While I was in college, I remember avidly reading this blog called War For News. This blog was started when the English news channel scene was hotting up in the country with the launch of two new channels. The blog started out as a sharp critique of news room decisions and on air presentations of news channels. As a student, struggling with an ancient syllabus that was divorced from reality, this blog was one of the places I used to go to get an idea of what happened day to day behind the studio lights so to say.

Some might say it was a warped view of the news industry. Indeed some of the comments were too personal in nature and the site was reportedly blocked in many a newsroom, but it was the only place where media men themselves critically looked at what was being dished out. At first it was all the rage, but then later on the site degenerated into accounts of who was seeing whom and who was whose favourite, clearly losing the aim of being the watchdog of the watchdog. Stories still abound about the forceful closure of the website after it indulged in unethical leaks of corporate mails and such.

The only other well-read media watchdog is probably The Hoot, but it sticks to the basic debates of journalistic integrity rather than day-to-day decision making in newsrooms. The Hoot was the Indian express to the Mumbai Mirror of War For News. The slew of copycat websites after War For News either died a neglectful death or degenerated to gossip magazines about media celebrities.

Social media makes freedom of expression a dicey concept. The lines between professional and personal blur on most of these sites. Recently a friend’s twitter account was added into the official twitter list. She had to now refrain from posting all the personal updates she did till then, because now it had been made into a professional mouth piece. What she tweeted now would be seen as the view of a responsible journalist. Some editors recognise this power of the new media and make wonderful use of it to serve the cause of expression.

But introspection is not a strong point yet in world media. And criticising your own system is a big no no. Tharoors of the system are mostly strongly dealt with world over. The Washington Post, the BBC and the Wall Street journal all have a list of ‘dos and don’ts’ in social media for their journalists. The Post circular says 'We must remember that Washington Post journalists are always Washington Post journalists', and that, '[we must] relinquish some of the personal privileges of private citizens.'

'Post journalists must recognize that any content associated with them in an online social network is, for practical purposes, the equivalent of what appears beneath their bylines in the newspaper or on our website.' (http://www.editorsweblog.org/newsrooms_and_journalism/2009/09/should_journalists_self-censor_on_social.php )

While a certain amount of responsibility is required of any media professional using a free for all medium like FB or Twitter, the question arises if we are taking ourselves too seriously? Are we taking these mediums of communication, that cater to less than a tenth of our population, and as Rajdeep Sardesai puts it ‘perfect to express a strong opinion without having to actually get involved in the muck of public life’ (http://ibnlive.in.com/blogs/rajdeepsardesai/1/54062/to-tweet-or-not-to-tweet.html ) too seriously? Would censoring opinions of their own vocal employees amount to negating all that the fourth estate stands for?

The question shouldn’t be whether to express an opinion or not. The actual question is where to draw the thin line between constructive criticism and disrespect, the line between rebelling with and without a cause. Maybe the day we as the fourth estate figure it out, we would be able to decide more precisely whether bigoted views of right wing politicians and idiotic or insensitive representations of issues in various art forms should be given a voice in the name of ‘Freedom of Speech’ or not. Should it be a voicing of opinions or informed opinions, maybe that is the bigger question.