Are you tired of award winners being foisted upon you? Do you angrily watch favour-seeking news organisations hand out prizes and medals to people who don’t deserve it? Well, from now on you don’t have to! For the first time, you get to decide who your Indian of the Year is.
That’s right! No fraudulent SMS polls. No manipulative internet voting. No prizes just for showing up. We’re “disrupting” the awards show circuit and making you the judge. All we’re going to do is present you with the nominees we think should receive this honour. And then, each reader elects his or her own winner. We repeat, you decide! Can there be anything more democratic than that?
Our first nominee is none other than the current occupant of the most powerful office in the land: the host of Times Newshour. There are many reasons why this man deserves to win the award. He is brave, decent and the self-appointed conscience of the country. However, to know why we nominated him, let us take you back in time.
Early Morning, May 16
The brightness of the summer sun forced him to open his eyes. That was shocking. How did the sun manage to get inside the safe environs of his secret bunker? No one was allowed inside those sacred chambers. As he began to acclimatise to the light, he noticed that there was something wrong. He didn’t wake up on his favourite futon but on some hard, undeterminable surface. Alarmed, he got up and looked around. Apparently, he had been lying on a footpath. He saw a cat licking its paws next to him. He decided to ask the cat some tough questions about their whereabouts.
“Where are we, Mr Whiskers?” he bellowed, shocking the cat out of its somnolence. “Was I placed here by secret government agents of an enemy country who wanted the world to think that I pass out on city roads like a common hooligan? Am I here because of the nefarious conspiracy of a rival channel that is tired of being destroyed by me in ratings and popularity? One minute, Mr Whiskers. Mr Whiskers, why aren’t you answering my questions? Cat got your tongue, eh?”
Instead of cowering in fear like any human would, the cat ferociously meowed at him, pawed his face and then ran away. “HOW DARE YOU RUN AWAY MR WHISKERS? COME BACK AND ANSWER ME! REMEMBER, NEITHER THREATS NOR FLATTERY, NEITHER PRAISE NOR ABUSE WILL MAKE ME BACK DOWN. NEVER EVER UNDERESTIMATE MY ABILITY TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THE MATTER!”
Arnab shook his head in anger. That reminded him of his piercing headache. He had a hangover. But how was that possible? He hadn’t had a drop of any illicit liquid since he appointed himself the guardian of the country’s morality. After all, a man of his stature has to practice what he preaches. The nation deserves nothing less. But he remembered sitting in a car that contained a lot of alcoholic fumes. Suddenly, it all came back to him.
He was about to go to bed. Maroof Raza had just tucked him in after a story about how Pakistan was the worst when the Arnabphone rang. It was Subramanian Swamy. Swamy whispered that one of the voices in his head had just informed him that there would be rampant hacking of electronic voting machines on counting day and only Arnab could stop it. Accepting this responsibility without question, Arnab threw away the covers and sprinted towards the Superprimetime Cave.
Once there, he saw that some Times Newshour guest had parked their car in front of the Arnabmobile. He rushed to the driver’s side of the car to chastise the owner. As he opened the door of the Premier 118 NE, he saw a snoring Vinod Mehta slumped on the steering wheel. Not having time to wait, he pushed the Editor Emeritus out of the vehicle and commandeered it in the name of national interest.
Arnab drove straight to Nirvachan Sadan, Indian democracy’s second most important building, (the first being the decommissioned nuclear power plant that now serves as the Times Now studios). He found that not only were the gates locked, but everything seemed in order. Relieved that he had beaten the miscreants to their common destination, Arnab decided to sit down outside the building and rest his weary eyes for a few minutes. That was the last thing he remembered.
Ignoring his troubles, Arnab focused his attention back towards the Election Commission building. There seems to be a lot of activity taking place there. “Hmm,” wondered Arnab, “so many people coming in and going out of a government building so early in the morning?” With his bullshit detector on, Arnab straightened his suit jacket and walked towards the gate. The guard blocked his path. “Do you know who I am?” yelled an exasperated Arnab. The guard looked at him for what felt like an eternity but was only two minutes and said, “Oh, you’re that Rajdeep fellow from television.” Not him. Anybody but him. Arnab closed his eyes and swallowed the pain. He didn’t have time to issue a strongly worded denial today. As always, the nation came first!
“Yes,” cried Arnab. “I’ve come to interview the Election Commissioner.” “Where is your camera crew?” asked the guard. “They’re a bit late,” said Arnab. After the guard let him in, he casually walked towards the entrance because he didn’t want to let any mysterious miscreant know that he was on to them. He was going to secure the voting machines first and deal with them later.
As soon as he reached the reception, he asked the clueless young lady talking on the phone to tell him where the voting machines were. She told him to wait, while she discussed her previous day’s adventures with – he presumed – another receptionist in a different office. He snatched the phone from her. “IT IS A MATTER OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE. THE FATE OF INDIAN DEMOCRACY HANGS IN THE BALANCE. WHERE ARE THE VOTING MACHINES, GOOD WOMAN?” The scared young lady backed up a little and, through her tears, informed him that “the electronic voting machines are in another building!”
For a minute, everything froze. The earth stopped spinning on its axis. Volcanoes stopped erupting. The polar ice caps stopped melting. The oxygen in the air stopped circulating. There was even a tear in the space-time continuum. For the first time in human history, Arnab Goswami had been rendered speechless.
Arnab couldn’t believe it. He had failed. He was unsuccessful in his mission. Dejected, he sat down on one of the benches. He had nowhere to go now. He couldn’t face his beloved nation after having spectacularly let it down. Just then, he heard a familiar, soothing voice emanating from the other side of the room. He looked up and his heart skipped a beat. It was Prannoy Roy talking to someone on the teevee.
He hadn’t heard that polite but firm baritone since the day he walked out of the NDTV office with tears in his eyes and determination in his heart. This father figure had never given him the validation he needed. Prannoy had always ignored him for the others. Especially that Rajdeep. “Well, well,” thought Arnab. “Look at you now, dada. You’re a shadow of your former self. Diminished and alone. The Dean of News Television, reduced to fighting for every last Nielsen ratings point.”
He snatched the remote from the receptionist and changed the channel. He couldn’t believe it. CNN-IBN was already running advertisements about having the best counting day coverage while not even having begun their programme for the day. The homeless man hosting News X’s coverage was literally talking to cardboard cut-outs of actual pundits. Meanwhile, the nation’s own channel was threatening to disintegrate into a scene from Lord of the Flies because the zillion analysts present in Arnab’s studio seemed lost without their fearless leader.
Then it dawned on Arnab. There was no danger to the votes. This was all a ploy by his rivals to keep him away from the broadcast. The most epic election in the world’s history needed the greatest television anchor in the world to call it. He would not shirk from his duty. He could still make it. He gathered himself and sprinted towards the exit.
Before he left, he saw the guard standing outside the building, singlehandedly protecting this hallowed pillar of democracy. He handed the guard thousand rupees and told him, “Keep this citadel safe. The fate of Indian democracy rests in your hands!” He ran back to the car before the guard realised that the note had Arnab’s picture instead of Gandhi’s. Once inside, he put his foot down on the pedal and disappeared into a storm of dust, smoke and patriotism.
That’s right! No fraudulent SMS polls. No manipulative internet voting. No prizes just for showing up. We’re “disrupting” the awards show circuit and making you the judge. All we’re going to do is present you with the nominees we think should receive this honour. And then, each reader elects his or her own winner. We repeat, you decide! Can there be anything more democratic than that?
***
Our first nominee is none other than the current occupant of the most powerful office in the land: the host of Times Newshour. There are many reasons why this man deserves to win the award. He is brave, decent and the self-appointed conscience of the country. However, to know why we nominated him, let us take you back in time.
***
Early Morning, May 16
The brightness of the summer sun forced him to open his eyes. That was shocking. How did the sun manage to get inside the safe environs of his secret bunker? No one was allowed inside those sacred chambers. As he began to acclimatise to the light, he noticed that there was something wrong. He didn’t wake up on his favourite futon but on some hard, undeterminable surface. Alarmed, he got up and looked around. Apparently, he had been lying on a footpath. He saw a cat licking its paws next to him. He decided to ask the cat some tough questions about their whereabouts.
“Where are we, Mr Whiskers?” he bellowed, shocking the cat out of its somnolence. “Was I placed here by secret government agents of an enemy country who wanted the world to think that I pass out on city roads like a common hooligan? Am I here because of the nefarious conspiracy of a rival channel that is tired of being destroyed by me in ratings and popularity? One minute, Mr Whiskers. Mr Whiskers, why aren’t you answering my questions? Cat got your tongue, eh?”
Instead of cowering in fear like any human would, the cat ferociously meowed at him, pawed his face and then ran away. “HOW DARE YOU RUN AWAY MR WHISKERS? COME BACK AND ANSWER ME! REMEMBER, NEITHER THREATS NOR FLATTERY, NEITHER PRAISE NOR ABUSE WILL MAKE ME BACK DOWN. NEVER EVER UNDERESTIMATE MY ABILITY TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THE MATTER!”
Arnab shook his head in anger. That reminded him of his piercing headache. He had a hangover. But how was that possible? He hadn’t had a drop of any illicit liquid since he appointed himself the guardian of the country’s morality. After all, a man of his stature has to practice what he preaches. The nation deserves nothing less. But he remembered sitting in a car that contained a lot of alcoholic fumes. Suddenly, it all came back to him.
He was about to go to bed. Maroof Raza had just tucked him in after a story about how Pakistan was the worst when the Arnabphone rang. It was Subramanian Swamy. Swamy whispered that one of the voices in his head had just informed him that there would be rampant hacking of electronic voting machines on counting day and only Arnab could stop it. Accepting this responsibility without question, Arnab threw away the covers and sprinted towards the Superprimetime Cave.
Once there, he saw that some Times Newshour guest had parked their car in front of the Arnabmobile. He rushed to the driver’s side of the car to chastise the owner. As he opened the door of the Premier 118 NE, he saw a snoring Vinod Mehta slumped on the steering wheel. Not having time to wait, he pushed the Editor Emeritus out of the vehicle and commandeered it in the name of national interest.
Arnab drove straight to Nirvachan Sadan, Indian democracy’s second most important building, (the first being the decommissioned nuclear power plant that now serves as the Times Now studios). He found that not only were the gates locked, but everything seemed in order. Relieved that he had beaten the miscreants to their common destination, Arnab decided to sit down outside the building and rest his weary eyes for a few minutes. That was the last thing he remembered.
Ignoring his troubles, Arnab focused his attention back towards the Election Commission building. There seems to be a lot of activity taking place there. “Hmm,” wondered Arnab, “so many people coming in and going out of a government building so early in the morning?” With his bullshit detector on, Arnab straightened his suit jacket and walked towards the gate. The guard blocked his path. “Do you know who I am?” yelled an exasperated Arnab. The guard looked at him for what felt like an eternity but was only two minutes and said, “Oh, you’re that Rajdeep fellow from television.” Not him. Anybody but him. Arnab closed his eyes and swallowed the pain. He didn’t have time to issue a strongly worded denial today. As always, the nation came first!
“Yes,” cried Arnab. “I’ve come to interview the Election Commissioner.” “Where is your camera crew?” asked the guard. “They’re a bit late,” said Arnab. After the guard let him in, he casually walked towards the entrance because he didn’t want to let any mysterious miscreant know that he was on to them. He was going to secure the voting machines first and deal with them later.
As soon as he reached the reception, he asked the clueless young lady talking on the phone to tell him where the voting machines were. She told him to wait, while she discussed her previous day’s adventures with – he presumed – another receptionist in a different office. He snatched the phone from her. “IT IS A MATTER OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE. THE FATE OF INDIAN DEMOCRACY HANGS IN THE BALANCE. WHERE ARE THE VOTING MACHINES, GOOD WOMAN?” The scared young lady backed up a little and, through her tears, informed him that “the electronic voting machines are in another building!”
For a minute, everything froze. The earth stopped spinning on its axis. Volcanoes stopped erupting. The polar ice caps stopped melting. The oxygen in the air stopped circulating. There was even a tear in the space-time continuum. For the first time in human history, Arnab Goswami had been rendered speechless.
Arnab couldn’t believe it. He had failed. He was unsuccessful in his mission. Dejected, he sat down on one of the benches. He had nowhere to go now. He couldn’t face his beloved nation after having spectacularly let it down. Just then, he heard a familiar, soothing voice emanating from the other side of the room. He looked up and his heart skipped a beat. It was Prannoy Roy talking to someone on the teevee.
He hadn’t heard that polite but firm baritone since the day he walked out of the NDTV office with tears in his eyes and determination in his heart. This father figure had never given him the validation he needed. Prannoy had always ignored him for the others. Especially that Rajdeep. “Well, well,” thought Arnab. “Look at you now, dada. You’re a shadow of your former self. Diminished and alone. The Dean of News Television, reduced to fighting for every last Nielsen ratings point.”
He snatched the remote from the receptionist and changed the channel. He couldn’t believe it. CNN-IBN was already running advertisements about having the best counting day coverage while not even having begun their programme for the day. The homeless man hosting News X’s coverage was literally talking to cardboard cut-outs of actual pundits. Meanwhile, the nation’s own channel was threatening to disintegrate into a scene from Lord of the Flies because the zillion analysts present in Arnab’s studio seemed lost without their fearless leader.
Then it dawned on Arnab. There was no danger to the votes. This was all a ploy by his rivals to keep him away from the broadcast. The most epic election in the world’s history needed the greatest television anchor in the world to call it. He would not shirk from his duty. He could still make it. He gathered himself and sprinted towards the exit.
Before he left, he saw the guard standing outside the building, singlehandedly protecting this hallowed pillar of democracy. He handed the guard thousand rupees and told him, “Keep this citadel safe. The fate of Indian democracy rests in your hands!” He ran back to the car before the guard realised that the note had Arnab’s picture instead of Gandhi’s. Once inside, he put his foot down on the pedal and disappeared into a storm of dust, smoke and patriotism.
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