Raudra rasa or Anger
I need a better mobile phone. My work demands it. The requirement is
simple – push mail, long battery backup, a super memory to save a lot
of contacts. That’s basic for a journalist. We need to stay in touch
and also keep updating our contact base. And any such phone would cost
anything beyond Rs 10000.
But then our finance minister has humored, rather angered me enough, to rethink
buying a new phone. He believes any phone that cost more than Rs 2000
is high end. Now what am I supposed to do?
At an age of telecommunication, I start wondering if the Minister has
ever bought a phone for himself. He levies additional taxes on ‘high
end’ phones hiking their prices. So now I have to survey more for a
phone not just for my needs, but also good enough to my pocket. More
Stress is a part of a journalist’s life. Contrary to belief we
actually work really hard. It’s not all glamour of meeting the big
shots. It’s the hell you go through in process of ensuring that you
can get to meet those big shots. And that’s where contacts come in
place. You meet people; you meet them again, and again. Hang out. Till
they are good enough friends to help you in your pursuit.
But now Mr finance minister has made meeting people difficult too. For
the meager salaries that we get, the Minister took delight in
announcing that we will have to shell out more to meet and eat with
people. Well, at Air Conditioned restaurants. Not cool! Now every time
I decide to meet someone for a coffee I need to rethink… Cruel!
Where are we supposed to dine comfortable? Inside ATMs? Well, I just
hope he does not levy taxes on offices with air conditioning. For a
media-house that would make the office a live volcano!
Ok. So I won’t meet people. Maybe I should finally get a cable
connection, spend more time at home watching TV. But, hey! Mr Minister
does not want me to do that either. He has increases prices of set top
boxes! So boom… I spend more! Well, at least I can still sleep and
that’s tax free. And dream.
Dreams have always been of growing richer. Owning my own few things. A
cool house and stylish SUV. Zip, zap, zoom! Mr Finance Minister
trespassed on to there too! Now he has made SUVs more expensive.
Property prices anyway are going haywire. Ouch!
A depressed fellow journalist says, ‘har fikr ko dhuwe mein…’
pointing at his cigarette only to be told that his pleasure stick is
going to cost him more too. Flabbergasted. For once I am pleased. But
I seem to be alone. This time around everyone else around is angry.
I get it. The Minister hates the journalist.
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