Kishore Singh: A wealth check

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Once a year, every year, in pursuit of transparency, journalists at Business Standard are provided an investment declaration form and urged to fill in replies that cause, depending on prevalent mood, either great mirth or greater despair. The annual exercise is aimed at keeping a benevolent eye on colleagues' balance sheets. Since journalists as a rule, and at BS without exception, are unlikely to be pampered with windfalls by way of salaries, the documents look like the GDP report of what globally are referred to as LDCs or least developed countries.

Here's how the facts stack up. Investments? None. Assets? None. Bank balance? Zilch. Balance of payments? Heavily in hock to some bank for loans taken to build assets that stretch way beyond the sell-by date for journalists. There's some comfort in numbers, of course "" being broke together being far better than being broke alone. But, again, if everyone's broke, the future is bleak indeed.

"But that's taking a narrow view of assets," laughs a colleague from another publication, vastly amused at this annual exercise. "In our line of work, every contact is an asset, and perhaps you should declare those assets to the fullest extent possible." "It's his wealth he needs to declare," his spouse says archly, "not that of some contacts whose annual reports," she points out, "is the stuff of BS headlines anyway."

There's some truth in that. Even so, I look to my list of acquaintances whose annual reports make news. Could they be considered an investment for a journalist? A hard look at a list of friends throws up a few who can be loosely termed wealthy, and we have spent time together, but how do they tot up on the investment declaration form as per clause number 13 of the BS code of conduct? For every meal we've eaten at their homes, we've returned the favour.

One gave me a book for my birthday, and my wife hopes to gift him a tie on his. They've never showed any inclination to be written about, and are remarkably indifferent to the presence of a hack in their midst. On consideration, therefore, I can presume they aren't of interest to BS.

"It's people whose wealth is secret that you need to declare," mocks a neighbour. Secretly wealthy friends? "I wish I had a friend who was covertly rich," I say, "but alas he must remain a figment of one's imagination." "How silly you are," says the neighbour, "don't you know our friend sitting between us is probably the richest entrepreneur from Bengal." "Really?" I say, staring intensely at our mutual friend whose only signs of affluence, as far as I know, is a little-used farmhouse on the city's outskirts.

"Are you rich?" "Pshaw," he says, making a rude noise. "Listen," insists the neighbour, calling the attention of a room full of friends, "how many Bengali industrialists do you know?" There's silence in the room as people rack their brains for names in vain. "Or Bengali entrepreneurs?" "What's that?" asks another Bengali, provoking much mirth. A debate ensues, but a dipstick survey reveals that no one is able to provide another name .

"What does that make our friend?" asks the neighbour in some triumph. "Probably the only Bengali businessman anyone knows," says another friend. "Oh, really," protests the Bengali millionaire feebly. "What it makes our friend," continues the neighbour, "is an extremely unique Bengali commodity, rare and endangered."

So, after due diligence, I'm glad to include in BS's investment declaration form this year, an asset no one else seems to have: a Bengali bhadralok friend who is also a potential billionaire. Fortunately, though, any investment in him doesn't add to my tax burden.