#SalmanKhanVerdict: Diary of a TV journalist
The call time toggles between an unearthly 6am and a slightly more merciful 7am. Of course, the gods make us line up outside Salman Khan's home at the less preferred 6am. This is at Galaxy apartments in Bandra. It is rumoured that any time more than one reporter gathers there, the discussion leads with the size of Salman Khan's home. We usually greet each other with "It's so tiny I hear, how can he stay there?". Today the greeting was different. "Guilty or not? What do you think?"
6am is a bit outlandish to land up outside Salman's home, even on this D-day. On a good day this is when he goes to bed/cycling with bodyguards/hijacking autos. Even on judgment day, we bet he's still snuggled up in his superstar sheets while we are waiting.
Waiting for what you ask? Well, waiting for him to leave. Why? For the visuals. That's terrible you say, leave the man alone on this day at least. But if we did then you'd tune into that one channel that gets you those "exclusive" visuals. Or fall for that "Salman Khan leaves home for court! ZOMG you will never believe what he's wearing." Clickbait. You promise to not do that, brush your teeth thrice and eat your greens and then you can lecture us afresh on how we are vultures.
Most journalists standing outside are hoping the media would be told to turn away. It's turning into a claustrophobic circus, we are being elbowed even when nothing's happening and on regular intervals, the crowd's murmur reaches a crescendo and though our better instincts tell us 8am is too early, we still have to jostle through the crowd and see it's an annoyed tenant of the building trying to leave to work.
Family comes first. No, that's not a moral, that's part of this narrative. Sohail, Alvira, Arpita and Arbaaz. Such swanky cars they whizz past us journalists in. We exchange glances that say "What are we doing here? We should get jobs that get us those cars!" and send dutiful mails to office about the arrivals.
Suddenly there is a furor. People are mobbing a grumpy man. It's Salim Khan furiously striding. "Where is he going?" I almost ask before remembering it's time for his famous morning walk. I don't even have a famous book or YouTube video I'm known for, Salim Khan even has a famous morning walk. The actor's father tries to turn this into any other day by sticking to his routine, I surmise. Trying to convince the gods that it's just another day. Mikes are thrust into his face, mine's not even connected to my camera because I know he's not going to talk. But he's not shooing the mikes off. Should I connect mine? Will it be that one tim - no, we're all turning back. I love it when the media acts with a conscience/logic.
I ask a half-friendly looking bodyguard when Salman is expected to leave. They usually never tell us anything, but he says Salman will be out in an hour. Small mercies. I will for time to go faster. Fans start crowding me. And by that I mean one unemployed curious young man decides to stand exactly one inch away from me, and when the cops wave bystanders away he says he's with me! Well, I never.
9:30. 9:35. 9:45. Salman's white SUV pulls out, he hugs his mother and father, and I feel sad again that we have to document the actor at his vulnerable most. I don't have much time to feel sad though because I'm telling office to flash this live.
Salman leaves, and we don't chase him. Thank god for small mercies. I don't believe in chasing cars because like the proverbial dog, I too wouldn't know what to do if I caught one. We have a cameraperson stationed near the toll on the Sea Link to take frontal shots of the actor in his car. Why? To provide you with visually rounded coverage. This is why you don't watch TV? Come on, I told you we didn't chase his car!
Now Salman Khan has left, and the verdict is expected at 11.15. There's some time to grab a bite and I do. I return at 11, wondering if I broke protocol by going away to eat. I can't find the unit car and I trudge down a good distance that's enough to make me start feeling the heat, and trudge back.
The reporters have huddled into groups, the "we used to work together" groups, the "we are so pretty" groups, the "we speak the same vernacular language" groups and I drift into the "we are standing here so let's talk to each other" group. "Guilty or not guilty?" I ask. I'm asked, "What's the verdict you want?"
I think to myself, if he's guilty he'll be taken to jail and I'll have to stand outside his home all day talking about the people trickling in to offer their sympathies to his family. If he's not guilty, then he'll come home and get busy planning a party and it'll all die down so I can go home. I don't want to say these thoughts out aloud, because I don't want to come across as selfish.
But I do. And all the reporters agree with me. But I was too hopeful, the actor was convicted of all charges. Lord almighty, now I'll have to know, by heart, those charges, understand them and recite them like I made them in the first place. There aren't too many fans, but one boisterous boyish lady walks past and asks a fellow journalist, "When's he coming back?" The reporter kindly tells her "He's going to jail" and she retorts, "Kai ko? Tu jayega jail".
A car worth the price of a Malabar Hill 2bhk approaches. It's Sangeeta Bijlani. Followed by Sonakshi Sinha (who I get exclusive visuals of, and that will be the least impressive thing to put in a CV, so I strike it off mentally even before it makes it to the longlist) and Preity Zinta also follows.
Meanwhile, the sun is seriously stepping up its game. Remember we are at Bandstand, one of those unfortunate expanses in Mumbai without the shade of a concrete jungle. I'm starting to perspire more than I ever have at the gym. I hunt out the unit car to sit in it for some respite. I feel like the AC is working but I also feel like it's just heating up the hot air inside the car which is already at Martian greenhouse temperature and I start sweating more and more until I feel faint and I don't know whom to bemoan to without looking like a wuss until a friendly cameraperson is shocked by my fatigued face and tells me the AC isn't in fact working, and then starts up the car properly so I'm temporarily saved by the faint artificial breeze.
Salman Khan gets convicted, the jail time is announced, he applies for bail, he gets bail. Now it would be nice if we were the first to know, but as reporters with dying batteries we are all just staring at each other's faces until some kind soul or the other tells us. I check social media for updates and I wish I didn't. Tell me, do we not bleed when you prick us? I don't like my chartered accountant, but I don't ram on about him all day. You hate the media, stars hate the media, the media hates the media. And all this hate is spewed all over social media. Especially, while I'm dehydrated and feeling insanely hot, it's not particularly nice to go through all the "f&^% you media!" posts.
It's 5pm and I'm perspiring profusely on-air desperately hoping it's not looking as bad as it feels and I'm asked to get reactions of Salman Khan fans who gherao me happily at the first "suniye" and then there's some in-fighting that starts between them with MCBC profanities while I'm desperately hoping my mike isn't picking that up and wondering if I will be held responsible if it does, but I can't move since the live is happening and the sun has also welded me to my spot.
Covering a case like this is a very political affair. And by that I mean the politics that happen on the field, the scrutiny you are subjected to by your so-called friends who work alongside you, the smirks from your well-wishers who aren't working alongside you and also kindness from strangers who don't work in general. Like that helpful stranger who abused a fan who was eve-teasing me, I missed what the alleged eve-teaser had said since I was doing a live and was in quite a dilemma if I should confront him and how, especially since I didn't remember what he looked like.
I haven't eaten since morning and the biscuits in my bag are blazing and unappealing. I feel a migraine coming on and it's the worst time to get one and I don't want to complain, and walking through the Texan sun I see my saviour, my colleague who has come to take over!
Lord be praised. Salman, you do whatever want to man. I'm going home Toto, and home never seemed cooler.