Subir Roy: A view of the New Yorker

OFF BEAT/ The little magazine romances every generation

Our daughter is up to no good, I told my wife. She was also getting worried, she confessed. It was not as if our daughter was openly up to some mischief, defiantly joining the spoilt generation.

Even that would have been a relief. What had got the two of us into a huddle was she wouldn't say what exactly she was up to.

There were these mysterious goings on between her and different groups of friends, sometimes big and sometimes small, with one or two boys thrown in. Of course, we were broad-minded.

Which parent isn't? She was well into her teens and reading in one of those schools which are considered trendy by those who are not in it. Sooner or later she will have boyfriends, I said with a long sigh.

My wife waved her hand dismissively and said it would be such a relief to know it even if it was that, her concern getting the better of her syntax.

What made things decidedly fishy was that our daughter and her friends would also occasionally go off to a restaurant. Nothing wrong with that but they weren't going there to eat.

Evidence: no higher demand for pocket money. Fishier still, they would occasionally troop to the theatre. Nothing wrong with that either, but again no demand for more pocket money.

Who paid for the tickets, I asked aggressively. No one, she replied cryptically. You mean they just let you in, my wife interjected.

Yes, our daughter replied, in her teenage monosyllabic worst and went off to her room.

What made her inexplicable daily routine more exasperating was that when she was not meeting her friends or talking to them on the phone, she was at the computer. We snooped a little to know she was not visiting forbidden sites.

All she and her friends seem to be doing was keep writing long long texts, too long to be messages, long enough to be long winded articles that only aspiring or failed journalists write, and exchanging them.

Then one day I found our daughter sneaking off to some of her meetings with her little automatic camera. Now I knew I would be able to beat her secretiveness and get to the bottom of the mystery.

The film would need to be processed, the prints would have to be made and paid for. At that stage I would pounce on the evidence and find out.

D-day came and I demanded to see the prints. She obliged and that only made things worse, the tension and mystery that is. There were amateurish pictures of restaurants, the kitchen crew with the tall hatted chef in the foreground and of plays and dressing room confusion.

Plus, there was the odd picture of some of our daughter's close friends and a couple of those boys, sitting round and apparently chatting animatedly.

What on earth are you people up to, I demanded with a tone of finality that made our daughter realise she must come out in the open.

We are bringing out a magazine, she replied and everything fell into place for me! The relief was so great that I slumped in the chair I was sitting.

Seeing the relief on my face my wife's tension also ceased but she was surprised I didn't want to know more.

Aren't you going to ask her what this magazine business is all about, she asked. I know all about it, I replied. But then why didn't you tell me and why have you been pretending you didn't know, she challenged.

I didn't know but now that I know, I know all about it. My wife had had enough of the mystery and sat down opposite me and demanded I explain it all. I sat back too and said then I will have to begin at the beginning.

Thus began the long story of my own tryst with bringing our own magazine in our college days and how it so engrossed us for the better part of a year and how it came to nothing.

So if you failed and wasted a lot of time, aren't you going to ask her to stop this stuff, she asked.

No I said and looking at our daughter with total indulgence said, it is a part of growing up. Every generation has to have its tryst with the little magazine.

It begins as you grow up and start having views of your own on issues you see all around you. As you want to communicate and find all the established magazines are hopelessly unable to articulate what matters, you want a magazine of your own, run by you and your friends.

Usually there is someone who has an oblique link with the media. In my group in my college days it was I. My daughter smiled and confessed that there was this boy who knew someone who was in an important newspaper and was encouraging them.

And when I said usually there is a very indulgent adult behind such groups she smiled more broadly and said there was one girl whose well off father had declared, if you can bring out a magazine, I will support it.

After I had finished my lecture my wife said impatiently, but this is her final year in school, what will happen to her boards? Don't worry, I said, it (the magazine) will peter out but till then let them write their heart out, do all the restaurant and theatre reviews they can and interview as many chefs and backstage hands as they care to.

My daughter didn't like the finality with which I predicted the end but realising she had a supporter, promptly came up with a request.

Will you buy us a New Yorker so that we can get some ideas? I was impressed they had heard the name and went and got her a copy from Premier bookstore, poorer by Rs 400, courtesy the owner who gave me a Rs 50 discount.

Then a couple of days later when I asked our daughter what she and her friends thought of the magazine, she grinned from ear to ear and said, you said the cartoons used to be good but they are still so good.

I nodded and as evening approached, told my wife, lets go for a drive, I feel our daughter is growing up right. She was not so sure and voiced one of her key concerns, I hope she doesn't want to become a journalist.