Moved!

I've moved to a new blog with most of my posts - so do come and visit :)

Captain Aapukuruvi still lives, however and will continue to inspire me to write!

Guardian Gyaan on Being a Science Journalist

I paid 40 pounds to attend the Guardian Masterclass on Science Journalism in London, to find out that

1. There are no jobs in print journalism for anybody, let alone print journalists.

2. You cannot become a freelance journalist – you must already be one.

3. Want to be a science journalist? Then you better have a brother-in-law in the labs.

4. Nobody wants to read what you write – that is assuming you can write.

5. The Guardian is the awesomest paper ever. And when I say ever I mean, ever.

Just kidding. Well… kinda. If you’re still reading, you probably do have a chance in print science journalism. I actually picked up a lot of useful tips in a very interesting 3 hour session conducted by James Randerson, editor of the Guardian Science Desk. For instance, I learnt that a shortened version of my intro here, in a news article, would be called a dropped intro – something that is playful, heightens drama, and is never supposed to be used in a well-written science article. Oops. The class was held in The Guardian’s impressive glass and steel office near King’s Place. I had expected around 20 other participants but was mildly shocked by the number of wannabe science journalists – all 100 places had been sold out!

James started off the talk with a mention of Tim Radford, the former editor on the Science desk and some of his tips. James reinforced Tim’s point that nowadays, the biggest pitfall in science journalism is writing that is not readable… or worse, not read. The most important person in a science news article, surprisingly enough, is you – the reader. Not the science.

Second most common pitfall? Overestimating the reader’s knowledge… and underestimating his intelligence. A typical science news story follows the inverted triangle concept – it starts off with the most newsworthy information, followed on by some details and finishing off with the background. The polar opposite of what a journal paper would do, though, in fact, very similar to the structure of an abstract. The topline hints at the specifics, but – and this was actually quite revealing – the topline of a science news story is 90% of the time a straightforward introduction to the subject of the story, not a dramatic introduction. So what makes a good science story?

There was a reason this class was advertised with a focus on health and environmental science stories. For a science story to work as news it should fulfill one of two basic criteria –

a) It should be relevant to me/my family/my friends (e.g., health stories – any number, such as the current series on running, potential cures for diseases, the list is endless)

b) Or, the story should have a ‘wow’ factor. Like the one about the meteorite in Russia. Or the discovery of the underwater lava lake by Southampton oceanography scientists.

In the second session we were given an insight into how a story makes it from a reported finding to the newspaper – a dreary drip-feed driven by press releases and news feeds from scientific journals. The whole shenanigans seems so dependent on the scientific community that it begs the question – do newspapers only ever publish stories that the scientists want them to? In fact, I had several questions bouncing around in my head, clamouring to be asked – are journalists doing a good job in communicating uncertain findings? Do the public have a right to know what’s going on in the labs, or are they merely interested?... but this talk was not a philosophical debate on the ethics of science and science journalism, so I told my questions to shut up.

Occasionally, Mr. Randerson (say that in an Agent-Smith-like voice if you’re bored) would plug the Guardian (“Contrast our responsible science publishing with the irresponsible rubbish printed by the tabloids”) but that was to be expected and did not detract from the more useful information and tips he gave us – so, forgiven.

The last bit of the talk was the most interesting, for – prepare to be shocked - unsolicited emails from individuals pitching science news stories ARE READ! Apparently this is how he got noticed. Among other things, a basic pitch should contain a topline, a peg (why now?), 50-100 words of context, a very brief summary of who you are… and if you have it, the story itself. Don’t expect a reply, let alone feedback – editors are ludicrously busy. But equally, don’t be shy to call up and harass them to atleast read your email.

Finally – tell them something they don’t know – avoid press releases and publications, and avoid regular journals – the press has these already. Oh – and in case you didn’t know - the Wellcome Trust Science Writing Contest is on.

Before I finish, I’d like to mention an interesting aside – I got talking to the guy next to me and we were both convinced that atleast 25 of the 100 participants that day were final-year PhD students, clutching at straws for their future careers. Funny image, that.

If you’re a journalist, I have nothing to say, except… watch out for those PhD students. If you’re a PhD student however… Go forth, and shine light into the murky world of science on behalf of all those lab coats in there struggling to communicate!

HTH.

Sanctum

Cool, airy and spacious, the ancient temple seemed almost cathedral-like, with a towering central dome, balconies running all round on four levels and the sanctum at the far end, with its curtain drawn. Unlike the more modern Ram Raja Mandir next door, this place was somewhat in ruins and almost empty. A few hundred years ago it would have thronged daily with devotees of the main deity, LaxmiNarayana, but today it stood unused. It wasn’t entirely still, however. This was evidently a popular hangout for local children… and curious tourists. An enterprising youth had acquired the keys to the inner stairwell and offered to open doors in exchange for a fee! After bargaining him down a bit we agreed on a price and spent the next half an hour exploring the balconies, stopping every now and then to take pictures of the picturesque town of Orchcha spread out at the feet of this monument.

We were asked to end our explorations by the self-assigned gatekeeper who felt we had had our money’s worth, and having had our fill of photographs, we obeyed and made our way out. I turned around as we were leaving, and noticed that the sanctum curtain was now partly open and a light shining through. As I walked towards it, I realized that this was actually a functioning temple. The sanctum had a resident deity and was manned! I took my shoes off some distance away before approaching the sanctum. As I neared it I realized that I was witnessing a miracle – an image that somehow, in that moment, felt powerful, and filled me with a sense of happiness, calm… and hope.

It was simply that sanctum was being guarded and maintained by a young girl, in her early teens. As she was still in uniform, she had probably come here straight from school. Oblivious to the conversations between the tourists and the self-appointed gate-keeper youth, the shouts and laughter from the other children running around the place, she sat there giving the deity company, reading diligently from a notebook. A plate with a lamp, some kumkum and turmeric, some flowers and some rupee notes sat beside her, along with a pile of text and note-books. I had approached the sanctum with the intention of seeing the deity and praying, but I backed away, not wanting to disturb her, so peaceful and absorbed in her reading! I decided that I would have to capture this scene, and did so rather guiltily, all the time feeling like I was invading the privacy of a sacred space. But I’m glad I did, for looking at that image a few months on, at a time when the country is being rocked by shocking scandals, brings back those feelings.

It is difficult to explain why I found - and still find - it so powerful – there is something about this image of a school-going girl, maintaining a temple sanctum while reading her textbooks, in an old, quiet, ruined temple that seems…right.  

Absinthe

(Absinthe - French word, from the Greek for 'wormwood' - a bitter shrub, also used as a noun to indicate a state or source of grief)

Black and red are the lips of rock

Volcano emerging from the depths

Thrust out of charred earth

A monument to eternity

Green and blue are its frames

A destructive force with a conscience

Ancient slopes richly forested

Framed against a deep blue sky

A monument to infinity

Black and red are the vanishing insides

Setting sun on frozen magma

Empty crater swallowing all light

A monument to nothingness

Green and blue is the pool below

Deep down, almost out of sight
Now still now alive
Unknown waters holding your grief
A monument to now

The Great Indian Tatkal Experience

Act 1

7.15 AM. The parrots and cuckoos had started calling, and the morning newspaper had just landed on our driveway, but the house was still slumbering. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and cursed, “Pick up, you lazy ass!” I waited six rings, put the phone down and went into the kitchen for coffee prepared by woken-solely-for-this-purpose-mum. Typically, my phone rang, out of earshot, and I missed my friend’s call. After playing cellular hide-and-seek for a wasted 10 mins we finally got to one another.

Me: Dude, you do realise we don’t have tickets for our Chennai-Nagpur train tomorrow?

VK: Of course. Tatkal only, no option.

Hm. Should we postpone? … Actually, no, scratch that. Fine. Tatkal. The window is 8-10 right?

Yeah. Cool, I’ll come over to yours at 8, I’ll bring my laptop as well – you have wi-fi right? We will need at least two log-ins to get the tickets.

Ahem… dai, this is why I called at 7.15! I told you yesterday – no internet at home, broadband’s down. I’ll bring my laptop to your place, that ok?

Nope.

Eh?? Wtf? Why not? No… don’t tell me….

Yep. Sorry. Power-cut times at my place are 8-10 this week… Hold on, I got it – dude, we’ll go to your dad’s office. You have two computers and printer, and all that. Sorted.

Gaaaahhhh…nope. Dad’s office is in the same zone as you – 8-10, no power. Haha. I would laugh if this weren’t true.

Nice. Kinda screwed. Ok, internet parlour.

Yes – only option. Aiyo, been ages since I used one! I think there’s one nearby, though it may not be open this early. We might have to scout. Listen – I’ll get my bike, and pick you up in 10 minutes at the end of my street.

15 minutes.

Machan – its 7.30 now. By the time we find a parlour and log-in, it will be 8. We need to be in the tatkal booking system at 8. Cya in 10, bye.

Fine, fine…goodness! Cya.

Act 2

 7.45AM. I dodged early morning joggers, cyclists, cows, proud Tata Nanos and water tankers, with VK riding pillion, looking out  for an internet cafe. My hunch about the first one was right – it was closed. In fact, very permanently closed. VK said he knew one near our ice-cream/chat shop guy, but we didn’t find any there. We drove through the streets behind the temple, but no luck there either. We finally found a shopping mall on the main road and were directed to an internet parlour. Yay!

Me: Hahaha, ahhh, hilarious.

VK: Crazy fellow, what’s up?... Oh.

Hehehehe, the irony! A candle-lit, power-less, internet parlour. We are soooo screwed! Goodbye holiday plans!

Machan, chill, let’s find out.

VK (to a forlorn, sleepy looking man who looked every inch the owner of an internet parlour facing a power-cut): Excuse me, when does the power come back on?

Internet guy: 8 am.

VK: Phew! Thank goodness! It’s…7.52 now.

Me: Good, I need sustenance. 8 minutes – there’s a chai-wala next door.

5 minutes, a chai and a banana later…

Dude – we better go – there’s a queue building to get into that parlour!

Gosh, looks like all of Kilpauk has descended here.

Yeah – it is tatkal time after all!

Act 3

With trepidation we join the ridiculously long queue to get into that tiny parlour. We look around, spot two free PC’s and grab our seats. One, in a corner, barely has place for me to stand, but what the hell, needs must, and all that. Sigh of relief. We boot up our computers, and fish out our IRCTC (online Indian railway reservation) log-in IDs and details.

VK: You have a credit card, right?

Me: Yeah, yeah… borrowed dad’s  – first let’s get into the IRCTC system.

Me: Yes! Woohoo!

VK: Booked??

Haha, very funny. But I have logged in, and selecting trains. You?

Not good. My… computer….just crashed.

Whaaaa? Crap, I’ve been logged out. Must be the whole of India booking tatkal tickets right now. Gaaahh.

Random Guy (sitting next to me): Hi. You are booking tatkal as well?

Me (glaring at potential competition): Yes. Where are you going?

Random Guy: Bangalore. You?

Me: Ah good. Nagpur. Have you logged in?

Random Guy: Yeah… ive even selected my train, but the page is stuck on the user details form.

Me: Ahhh. You’re ahead of us! VK – we need to catch up.

VK: Yeah, yeah. My computer’s still booting up. Give me the passenger details, meanwhile.

10 minutes of silence punctuated by mouse-clicks, frantic keyboard taps and frustrated sighs.

Random Guy: Damn. I got to the payment page, entered my card details, and it crashed!

Me: The computer?

Random Guy: No, no, the internet. Have to log in again now. Torture. You? Any luck?

Me: Hmm, I keep getting stuck on the user form details. Its already 8.20, I don’t even think there’ll be any tickets left after 8.30.

VK: Boo, yeah! Sid, credit card, quick! Grand Trunk Express okay with you?

Me: Dude! Yeah! Hell, I’ll be happy if we can get there sitting on the roof. Stud! You got it? Here, take card, go, go go!

VK: Passenger details, check. Card details, check. Proceed to payment. HDFC Gateway….waiting…not looking good…yeah! Done, and done! Four berths – Grand Trunk Express, tomorrow evening 19.30, booked…. I. Am. The. Man.

Me: Awesomeness! Yeah! (to Random Guy) Any luck, mate?

Random Guy: What, you guys got your tickets? Man, no, I had to start all over again. Bangalore sector is the worst.

Me: Yeah – Bangalore is terrible. Keep trying!

VK and I make a victorious exit and head straight to the nearest restaurant for a well-earned breakfast of coffee and masala dosa. We had just emerged victorious from a trial that millions of Indians go through everyday, a trial where victory is by no means guaranteed, and on which holidays, businesses and journeys depend – the Great Indian Tatkal Experience.