Kishore Singh: Lunch with the editor

PEOPLE LIKE US

At first, it was just another invitation "" the editor, we were informed last week, would like a bunch of us to join him for lunch this Saturday. And since hacks will go to any length for a free meal, even the prospect of the Monday edit meeting shifting prematurely to the weekend (what else were we to talk about?) didn't seem like such a big deal.

If there were ideas we didn't want to be listening to, we could always pretend to be slurping our soup; and if there were responsibilities being handed out, one could always pretend to be having a choking fit.

Any inkling, therefore, that it was a Big Deal, came by way of phone calls from "friends" in the media. "Are you guys shutting down?" a rival colleague rang to ask.

"What a funny thought," I said; "why would you imagine that?" "Word's out," she said ominously, "that you've been called to lunch to announce The End." "No, no," I said feebly (crossing my fingers), "it's just a friendly, pat-on-the-back kind of meal."

That the argument wasn't cutting ice became evident when a former colleague asked, "When was the last time the editor took anyone out for lunch?" "That," I admitted, "was a senior colleagues' farewell several months ago." "Bingo!" he responded, "and before then?"

"Er," I hesitated, "it was, perhaps, another farewell." And put like that, it did appear that we ought to be practicing choir singing "For he's a jolly good fellow".

Bonhomie for the lunch considerably reduced as the week moved on. Senior journalists accosted each other in the corridors of Business Standard to ask: "Do you think all of us might be sacked at one go?"

"Nah," said another of those pesky journalists from outside, "you're being summoned to announce the sale of your paper." Really? "The new management might like to bring in its own team," the reporter giggled, "so maybe you should be getting your CVs ready."

But hope springs eternal, even in the cynical minds of the reporteratti. "Do you think," a colleague asked, "we're all going to be handed out promotions?" For a few brief hours, we clung to that bright beacon of a suggestion.

The idea, for all its absurdity "" management doesn't like to hand out more money by choice "" wasn't all that far-fetched: jobs for journalists were being traded like stocks in the market, and for some while, at least, the mood was bullish.

In that brief period, luxury cars were anticipated, real-estate columns perused somewhat more closely than usual, and holidays planned to swanker resorts than any of us could legitimately afford.

True, there were some who weren't bothered a mite, either way. "If the editor's feeding you," one hack warned, "he wants more work out of you." The fattening-of-the-calf theory had its takers, but since most felt they were already too strained, it didn't receive as wide an audience as it might otherwise have done.

As the days ticked by, the mood swung wildly, oscillating between "closure" and "revival", despair and hope, between "being sold" and "being cheered". By mid-week though, ennui had set in.

There was too much work to be done, and whether we were to be feted, or sacrificed, or merely entertained over lunch became a moot issue.

Therefore, even as you read this, BS's edit team is putting together its story lists should, as is suspected by most, it turn out to be a dreaded, out-of-turn edit meeting.

How will you know? Simple: if this column is still here next week, we haven't been axed. Else, prepare to tell your newsvendor to switch to the other, cheaper alternate.

Till next Saturday, then "" keep the faith.