Re: [HumJanenge] Remembering Masterji

Dear PMK 1504,

I agree with Bhaskar and others. Come clean and disclose your identity.

While we all respect and admire Masterji, I think the spirit of inquiry that he fostered in all of us will be overcome by sentimentality. So, tell us why we all are playing this game of hide-and-seek.

Warm Regards,
Krish

On Mon, Oct 25, 2010 at 1:07 PM, Bhaskar Prabhu <mahitiadhikarmanch@gmail.com> wrote:

Dear MR. PMK 1504,

 

I would appriciate, diclose who you are  your self and be transperant. As of today who ever were acquented with Masterji nobody has forgoton him.

 

Inservice for RTI.

 

Bhaskar

On Mon, Oct 25, 2010 at 11:13 AM, PMK1504 <humjanenge.owner@gmail.com> wrote:

The present moderators of HJ (yahoo) have forgotten all about Masterji
these past few years. Even his photograph has been removed from
website (replaced with Arvind Kejriwal's).

We would all do well to recall Masterji and Vinita's Tribute to him.

Tribute to Prakash Kardaley, editor and Right to Information
campaigner from Pune (by Vinita Deshmukh)

Journalism for him was not a jungle or words, in which he got
aimlessly lost. Each word that went into `cold print' as he called it
was an explosive part of ammunition, to be struck with military
precision. For him, the editor's cabin was not an ivory tower but a
strategic field post from where he could map out his `war' strategies.
He called his reporters the `infantry brigade' while the features
section was the `artillery department'. Every campaign he undertook
through the news columns was a well-planned `assault' to either maim
the opposition or completely demolish it â his enemy no.1 being
injustice to the common, faceless man. Here too, he did not jump into
an impulsive attack. He used to say, ``when you are gunning one finger
at someone, you should have enough reserves in the three fingers
pointing at you.''

That's the unbeatable Prakash Kardaley who breathed the fire of
journalism for 40 years, day and night, till the last breath of his
life, last Sunday. He used to say that every centimeter of the news
column is too precious to be frittered away for `irrelevant' issues.
His incessant mantra was: ``Relevance â that's the prime thing you
should know as a journalist. When you broach a story idea, ask
yourself, would the reader have missed it if he had not read it?''
Dare you throw a pompous or a frivolous idea and he would be
ruthlessly rude: ``Are you touching the pulse of the reader or going
on an ego/fancy trip just because you have the power of the  pen in
your hand?'' You felt so useless and worthless at such times!

In the last seven years, Prakash had adorned another robe â that of
the Right to Information activist, but he believed it was the
extension of relevant journalism. ``Times have changed and now
journalists better know that they have a competitor in the common man.
Even without being a part of the fourth estate or flaunting the
pompous `press' card, the ordinary man from all corners of the country
is accessing information from government offices and shocking you with
the details that was otherwise the prerogative of the so-called
`investigative journalist.' ' He used to be distressed and saddened
that journalists did not use this weapon despite having the platform
of amplifying the details - many of which he said had the potential of
shaking the government or showing it in bad light â through the
powerful mode of the print and electronic media.

Prakash was so wedded to his work that eating any fancy food or
attending a celebrity party was an insult to his mission. His
well-known weakness was the beer bottle but here too it was not
wayward indulgence. Beer sessions at the charming Grand Hotel in Pune
were extensions of ideas/strategies planned during the day â perhaps
to be crystallised while gulping beer in the late evening. His
favourite words were, ``Arre, I must have beer with him, I want to
discuss that point which cannot be done in the office where phone
calls and visitors get really irritating. ''

Ever since he passionately took up the RTI crusade though, beer
sessions were replaced by his date with the computer till the wee
hours of the night. He had become an ardent netizen and explored the
cyber space with an enthusiastic but missionary zeal. Even at the age
of 65 years, he would devote his entire day to the new local weekly he
had launched about four months ago and after work, become an ardent
netizen activist. He was the founder of the `Hum Janenge' yahoo
discussion group and today it is one of the most formidable netizen
crusade groups in the country (perhaps in the world). For any news /
views / ciritcism / appreciation about the RTI movement in India, all
you have to do is become its member. Hum Janenge comprises about 600
members and everyday someone or the other is enrolling anew. His short
moment of happiness was when in one single day 58 new members
enrolled, a couple of months back. The enthusiasm being triggered off
by a national RTI convention that he held in Pune and relevant news
reports appearing all across the country, arousing the curiosity of
many. Till the wee hours of the morning, he used to be posting
devastating messages that used to make even RTI information
commissioners squirm in their stomachs. When morning broke, he was
back to being a journalist - always had a story idea for the weekly
and he could not wait to reach office to tell me excitedly of an idea
which I should immediately get cracking on.

For journalists he was known as the `Master'. For RTI activists, he
was `Masterji.' I used to be amazed - how anyone can be so correct and
commanding. His disposition was serious, in fact, unfriendly and rude.
He could not suffer `fools' â he would have liked the world to think
and act as ``scientifically and logically'' and as fast as he could.
To those who were close to him, he showed no mercy if they wronged. He
shot stinging arrows from which you either learn or run away from. To
those who did good work, even if it was a fresh trainee, he would
present him with `AVSM, PVSM' medal as he would term it. He would call
that `colleague' (he hated to call anyone junior') and then dig out a
paper from his wastepaper basket to offer as the `medal.' When he
laughed, he laughed so heartily that he used to go red on his face,
with tears of joy rolling down his cheeks! You wondered how a man who
used to otherwise snap at people can exude such warmth! I once told
him that he is a honey bee that stings but also produces honey. He
smiled.

Warmth â a quality of his not many know. He was known more as a
hardcore, investigative journalist and one who had pioneered civic
journalism in the country. However, soft stories that touched the
heart of the readers inspired him. He brought these out through the
``artillery tribe.'' A month ago, local newspapers splashed page one
photographs of tribal girls from Maharashtra being trained as air
hostesses. My foot! He said, ``did you read that? Arggh, these
newspapers have carried it so blandly. Let us give justice. Go and
meet that lady who is training these girls. Doesn't it remind you of
Professor Henry Higgins who taught the flower girl Elisa Doolittle in
`My Fair Lady.' Treat the story that way â it must go as a cover
story.'' The same day he handed me the `My Fair Lady' movie cassette.
``See it first, otherwise you cannot do justice to this silent social
revolution that is happening in your very own city.'' After I wrote
the story, ``May I have a look at what these girls looked like before
they wore these mini-skirts and stockings? Use both pictures for that
formidable effect!'' The cover story is still receiving rave reviews.
No one would know the man behind it.

Twenty minutes before he died, he gave me instructions on an Impact
story to be carried. Then he called up 20 minutes later. ``I can see
all black in front of my eyes.'' I said, ``Remove the pillow below
your head and sleep straight.''

The phone went silent. He had the habit of banging the phone down
tersely. I thought he had agreed to my suggestion - he quite relied on
me for health tips. I didn't know he had stopped talking forever. Next
I saw him sleeping on the stretcher â without a pillow under his head.
I can't believe he has gone forever! I am sure he has loved that
moment â he always desired to `instantly' switch off. Without a fuss!