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Kathmandu Sunday January 13, 2002 Paush 29, 2058.
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A tale of a souvenir
I had a chance to go on a junket recently. It was my first such experience in
my four-and-half-month apprenticeship as a reporter. The trip turned out to be important,
not because it was the first of its kind, but because it had a lesson for me.
It was a chilly late-December morning. I was representing The Kathmandu Post,
and there were two other journalists from two government-run media outfits, as we arrived
at the premise of an embassy. (I shall deliberately not disclose the name of the embassy
nor the names of the organisation that my journalist friends belonged to.)
We were to go with a diplomat to observe a Highway construction. Our journey
was in a Pajero, that most loved vehicle of our politicians. This was my first Pajero ride
and I felt as if my fantasy had turned real. All through the day I deluded myself that I
am a politician and my voters were waving at me. The Pajero had a diplomat number plate,
and this again gave wings to my dreams because I have this secret ambition of being a
diplomat some day.
I also remembered what my journalism teacher had once told me: "The life
of a reporter is a bed of roses". Indeed it looked like that during the ride although
I only know too well that it can also become a bed of thorns.
As we approached Dhulikhel, two police vans were waiting to escort us. Pride
again was running its full course through my veins. I was incredibly happy. But at the
back of my mind, a touch of anxiety was lurking.
Suddenly one of my companions said, "Hey, Kiran we are heading towards a
Maoist area and we might be ambushed". And by the looks and gestures of the policemen
escorting the diplomat, I knew that we were not on too safe a territory.
I had not really chatted with the diplomat till that time, but now when I
did, the chief of the escort squad scolded me, saying, "Patrakar Mahodaya kura garne
hai na hai, yo area ma Maobadi ko bigbigi chha bhanne thaha chhaina?" (respected
journalist, don’t you know the area you are in is full of Maoists ?). I was not
talking to the diplomat about diplomacy or anything like that, but about the "real
Nepal" and its pristine natural beauty as we made our way along the winding highway
passing through the Mahabharat range. I wanted to know about the diplomat’s
impression of this country as I thought I had the seeds of a feature story there. But
whenever the vehicle was stopped for us to take in the breathtaking view of the mountains,
I could not get near the diplomat because security eyes were prying on me.
When we finally reached our destination, I felt relief and comfort. But not
for long. It was three in the afternoon, and my companions were getting hungry. They were
hinting about it in all kinds of ways, and finally, they made their point diplomatically.
The most important part of the story took place when an embassy staff
("political officer") who was accompanying us, told me that there was a souvenir
waiting for me. I frankly told the political officer (we had got close during the journey)
that I will take it only if it were a simple one. He assured me that it would not be a
"heavy" one.
But when I got the "souvenir" in my hands in the form of an
envelope, I realised that there was money in it. Apparently to pay us for reporting the
Highway visit. I would have nothing to do with the money, and I rejected it outright,
saying, "My office pays for my reporting." The embassy staff did everything to
convince me, but I did not compromise at all. I returned the envelope. I knew my brief
relationship with the political officer had turned sour.
Same with my journalist companions. They would not speak to me after the
incident. They did not even bid me goodbye. Did I do anything wrong?
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