Kishore Singh: No gifts here

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At a time when the media is bursting with opportunities and alternate employment prospects, this paper is skirting along on thin ice with its diligently worded code of conduct that binds all of us from such hedonistic pursuits as making money. The reference is to a little bit on the side, though there is a school of thought that it might stretch to include such non-essentials as salaries. (Please God, or Editor "" only one of whom I know for sure exists "" for the record, I do not fully subscribe to this theory.)

Among various things that the code of conduct, which is meant to be full of such soul stirring, novitiate journalist-recruiting phrases as "honesty" and "integrity" and "due diligence", advises us is to avoid the possibility of graft by saying no to media junkets, or accepting any gift that is not a pen. And lest you think we are allowed a personalised cachet of Mont Blanc pens, alas, we must spurn anything that's dearer than a Rs 10 refillable gel jotter that's cheaper bought by the dozen.

But because the media, like the army, marches on its stomach, for reasons unexplained it's all right if we are wooed with food (but not wine). You can take us out for lunch, send us chocolates or cakes, and in this festive season nuts by the kilo are welcome, but gifts, alas, we must spurn.

Strict instructions debar anything but bottled jams and jellies getting past the vigilant eyes of those who do duty at the portals of the office. What does the rule book say about candles for Diwali? If it's wax, they'll pass muster, but should anyone suspect that a silver diya or a gold coin might be taped to the bottom, it'll be returned before you can say "dhanteras". Someone is waiting at reception with books for you, the receptionist calls to say. "For review?" I ask hopefully. "No sir, a gift," says a weary voice. "Are you sure they're not for review?" I try being persuasive. Alas, they're not, and are sent back rudely to the dispatcher, showing a certain lack of festive spirit.

"If we can't accept gifts, why do we give gifts?" asks my daughter sharply, having learned from her sources about the windfalls that have visited others in the profession "" everything from tableware to skincare to an extensive wardrobe. "We give gifts," I point out to her, "to our family and friends, but not to professional acquaintances." "Why can't you let acquaintances become friends then?" she enquires tremulously "" her friend has got an MP3 player that came by courier from a benefactor whose company no one in the family had heard of.

It's quite a test, that one. "Friend or acquaintance?" asks my wife whenever someone rings the doorbell. "Courier," comes the most frequent response. "Friendly acquaintance," attempts another one. "It'll be neither," protests the neighbour, "if you don't open up in a hurry."

Still, despite the censorship, the odd gift will sneak in "" "I don't know anything," wails the cook when admonished for accepting a relief of Ganesh simply because she wants it for her altar. A friend rings up, angry, because the door was slammed in his driver's face. "Sorry," says my son, "we thought he was an acquaintance." "Meaning?" demands our friend. "Meaning that we didn't know that he was from a friendly camp," my son explains limply.

"This," screams my wife, "is punishing, standing at the door to sift through friends and un-friends. Why can't you simply tell your Editor to change the office code of conduct." I tell her that as a conscientious Editor I'm sure he's reading this and may pay heed to what she has to say. Till then, though, she must join in the guard duty "" without consideration.