I think he recognised me as soon as he saw me. He had the aisle seat in the same row as me and he kept staring.
I wish I could say that I hated it, but I'd be lying. I'd fallen for the TV trap - it's great to be spotted.
So there I was on a flight to Raipur and I'd been spotted. So much for all the people who said that if you work for an English news channel, the maximum fame that you can aim for is to be recognised by the maitre'd of a South Delhi restaurant (Maybe, that's what I really wanted!).
A BBC trainer once told me that many people wanted to be a TV reporter for the 'hello mom' factor - that you want to get on air to impress your family - sometimes, I think, he was talking about me.
Anyway, back to my Raipur flight. Somewhere, strengthened by the on-board snack perhaps, the gentleman leaned across and said, "Excuse me, are you with NDTV?"
Oh joy. "Yes."
"Are you Choudhury?"
This is un-bloody-believable. He knew my name. And then a miracle happened. The man who turned out to be an army officer from the Valley went on to describe every story I covered in the last three years. He knew when I had done each story, what he particularly liked.
After four years of TV journalism and an equal number in the anonymity of print, I'd actually met a fan. Doesn't matter that the situation in the Valley wasn't really conducive to socialising, so perhaps TV was the only thing he did for fun.
"You know, I don't see you lately."
I knew it was too good to last. "Really? But I just did a story three days ago. And I also read the news once a week (It's late night so you have to be awake to watch it).
"Are you sure?"
It was no use. The man was not to be fooled. I spent the next half hour trying to convince him that my last best story was not two years ago, but he was adamant. The next hour of the flight, I sat staring outside the window in a huff. The sole fan I had in this world had also cruelly questioned all my recent work!
I guess it's an occupational hazard. If you do well, everyone knows (your mum, dad, siblings, all their friends) and if you don't, well, they get to know that as well. It used to hurt much more when I was in the Indian Express, actually.
"You know, I haven't read your articles for a while, Sunetra."
Now, it's tricky dodging that. You can't say that that it came on so-and-so day because they can go back and check the paper (at least, theoretically). But in TV, people kind of assume, that they possibly cannot watch everything on 24-hour television. So, they forgive you.
My pet peeve in this aspect, though is, that as soon as anyone sees you on TV (doesn't matter that you only take up 15 seconds of the 24-hour news cycle), they think that it becomes legit to tear you apart. Or suddenly, everyone turns into Barry Norman.
I've had much, much more than my fair share of gaalis (many legitimate but many downright-no-question-about-it-unfair as well). But this one incident, takes the cake: This guy calls me up in office - "Hello, Sunetra, are you a Bengali?"
"Yes."
"You know, so am I."
That's his intro line. And then it looks like he's being nice to me. He tells me that a particular story was good, and that it highlighted an issue that was important. And could I help him by telling him if there was a job in NDTV?
Sure, I'll pass on your CV, I tell him.
And then: "You know, my father and I saw you anchoring the day the earthquake struck?" I listen. "You know, we think that you are not fluent and you stammer and sometimes, it looks like you are searching for words. What do you think?"
What could I think! I'm sure I'm eternally grateful for being reminded of my inadequacies even though I don't know who you are. Even though you want MY help to get into NDTV and, and you are "kind" enough not to send an anonymous criticism. But to actually call me up and tell me on my face?? I said nothing, muttered something about helping him, and hung up.
So, do you think I should help him out?