(By Ashish Mukherjee)
To say that Jyoti Sanyal knew the English language inside out would be an understatement. Or to snatch an idea from his Statesman Stylebook, it would be "stating the obvious".
In my nine months at ACJ, and afterwards, I never found Sanyal stuck for want of the right word – written or spoken. I used to be as much kicked about his razor-sharp intros (scribbled in red ballpoint ink on my newswriting exercises) as his manner of speaking.
During the daily swipes that he took at English language newspapers, Sanyal never wasted time or vocabulary on unnecessary civilities. Blunt was his way. He would call a spade a spade, and often a bit more! No wonder that quite a few of my batchmates would routinely get pissed off.
Here's a rewind to the ACJ classroom of 1998, to the “vocabulary” of Jyoti Sanyal.
Shitrag – First day, first salvo against substandard journalism. This was Sanyal's common noun for English language newspapers. Not one paper escaped the tag.
Who wrote this piece of shit? – A question Sanyal would regularly throw at us, especially during critiques of the ACJ lab journal. Unable to explain the use of that unnecessary adjective or wrong phrase, the culprit could do little but fumble.
Face first, arse later – This had nothing to do with the human anatomy. Sanyal was merely telling us how to put names and designations in copies – always, the name first and designation later. "S M Krishna, former chief minister of Karnataka", he would say…
This is Baboo English! – Thank you Ram for reminding me of this in your MiD DAY column!
“Baboo English” was Sanyal’s dig at 21st century Indian English written with a 19th century colonial hangover. The commonest example he would give was the practice of putting a "subject" in official letters.
My admission application to ACJ had run with the subject "Request for ACJ admission form". The teacher in Sanyal lost no time in correcting me, even though I was months away from my ACJ studentship.
Handout journalists – A reference to reporters who churned out reader-unfriendly stories from government and police handouts, ignorantly picking up and adopting hackneyed expressions and clumsy sentences along the way.
25 – The maximum number of words the intro of a copy could have. A Lakshman Rekha that we dare not cross! I started my ACJ stint with 40-word intros and steadily improved…
Towards the end of the course, when I sometimes managed to say it all in about 20 words, Sanyal would don his editing hat, carefully strike off a few words and say, "It's 15 words now. What do you think? Can we tighten it further?”...
Don't put the cart before the horse – News first always was Sanyal’s mantra. Especially in legal copies where reporters have the habit of prefacing important judgements with the name of the judge.
Never point out, it's bad manners – While quoting in copies, Sanyal wondered why journalists would unnecessarily make officials and ministers "point out", "mention", “stress”, “add” or "opine" when one could simply "say" things. His take was when reporters write "so and so pointed out", they actually mean "so and so said"…
"In any case, never point out,” Sanyal would say, his index finger pointing very much at you. “It's bad manners!"
-Ashish
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Miss you
By Shiny Phillip (acj, 1999-2000)
It's a strange feeling... My first meeting with Sanyal was before I actually walked up the steps of ACJ, Bangalore. I was at a writing workshop in Whitefield for which he was a resource person. At that time, ACJ wasn't on my radar. Here was this man, zealously denouncing 'legalese' almost as if the 'jargon' had given him a summer rash.
At the end of the session, we had to write a short story. When I got my paper back, it read, “An excellent Roald Dahl ending. Keep it up.” Of course I was thrilled.
Two years later, ACJ happened. Two sessions later, when I had my worksheet literally thrown back at me, my hangover vanished. It was an uphill climb, plodding through the redundant phrases and weeding the excesses out of oneself. I still go back to his 'style sheet', using it as a compass when I lose my way in murky texts.
It was on Sunday that I heard he died. He must have been very lonely, I mused. We will all miss him -- his temper, as Meena says, his missionary zeal, as Ashish says, his sense of intolerance, his restlessness... we will miss him.
It's a strange feeling... My first meeting with Sanyal was before I actually walked up the steps of ACJ, Bangalore. I was at a writing workshop in Whitefield for which he was a resource person. At that time, ACJ wasn't on my radar. Here was this man, zealously denouncing 'legalese' almost as if the 'jargon' had given him a summer rash.
At the end of the session, we had to write a short story. When I got my paper back, it read, “An excellent Roald Dahl ending. Keep it up.” Of course I was thrilled.
Two years later, ACJ happened. Two sessions later, when I had my worksheet literally thrown back at me, my hangover vanished. It was an uphill climb, plodding through the redundant phrases and weeding the excesses out of oneself. I still go back to his 'style sheet', using it as a compass when I lose my way in murky texts.
It was on Sunday that I heard he died. He must have been very lonely, I mused. We will all miss him -- his temper, as Meena says, his missionary zeal, as Ashish says, his sense of intolerance, his restlessness... we will miss him.
Posthumous recognition
By Nandagopal Menon (Nandu, acj, 98)
I remember my last encounter with Jyoti for all the wrong reasons. It was in late 2005 and he tried to recruit me for a rather unpleasant cause, to say the least. I almost signed up. But, fortunately, one of my colleagues (who also happened to work with Jyoti in The Statesman) saw through it and warned me. I don't want to go into the details of the episode. At least some of you ACJians, especially my classmates, know about it.
That said, I have to add that I have always respected Jyoti's brilliance and passionate commitment to his work. I believe that when alive, he did not receive the recognition he deserved. Part of that, of course, was because of his hot-headedness and unenviable skill to alienate people. Now that he is no more, hopefully people will judge his work and not the person. And, for sure, his work is near-flawless. Some are born posthumously. Perhaps Jyoti is one among them.
I remember my last encounter with Jyoti for all the wrong reasons. It was in late 2005 and he tried to recruit me for a rather unpleasant cause, to say the least. I almost signed up. But, fortunately, one of my colleagues (who also happened to work with Jyoti in The Statesman) saw through it and warned me. I don't want to go into the details of the episode. At least some of you ACJians, especially my classmates, know about it.
That said, I have to add that I have always respected Jyoti's brilliance and passionate commitment to his work. I believe that when alive, he did not receive the recognition he deserved. Part of that, of course, was because of his hot-headedness and unenviable skill to alienate people. Now that he is no more, hopefully people will judge his work and not the person. And, for sure, his work is near-flawless. Some are born posthumously. Perhaps Jyoti is one among them.
Still alive
By Priyadarshini Basu (acj, 98)
The only tribute I have silently been paying 'The Blighter', as some of us secretly referred to him, is by fighting to keep the intros within 20-25 words every crack of dawn. Can't tell you how much I thought of him the first day that I joined MiD DAY! The reporters' copies would have been a gold mine for Sanyal! He could've written a sequel to his book. But since that will not be, I can only pray his spirit continues to handhold and help me deliver the goods.
As you rightly said Ashish, we may have hated him, secretly admired his sheer editing genius, but we have never really been able to ignore him.
He lives on in our speech, in every written word and perhaps a tad grudgingly, has even managed a little nook in our hearts.
Long live Jyoti!
Priya
The only tribute I have silently been paying 'The Blighter', as some of us secretly referred to him, is by fighting to keep the intros within 20-25 words every crack of dawn. Can't tell you how much I thought of him the first day that I joined MiD DAY! The reporters' copies would have been a gold mine for Sanyal! He could've written a sequel to his book. But since that will not be, I can only pray his spirit continues to handhold and help me deliver the goods.
As you rightly said Ashish, we may have hated him, secretly admired his sheer editing genius, but we have never really been able to ignore him.
He lives on in our speech, in every written word and perhaps a tad grudgingly, has even managed a little nook in our hearts.
Long live Jyoti!
Priya
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Learning to teach
Sandhya Bhattacharya (acj, 98)
Thank you for letting me know about Mr Sanyal's death. Like Vijay, I must admit that being his student was nerve racking, to say the least. But I was shocked and saddened by this news.
Surprisingly, I've thought about Mr Sanyal many times in the last decade, (he would even rant in my dreams). As someone who is now herself a teacher I've spent a fair amount of time reflecting upon effective pedagogical strategies, and reviewed those of my mentors. I remember reluctantly coming to the conclusion that Mr Sanyal was (despite my deep seated resistance to him), among the finer teachers I've had. Like my peer in ACJ I still cringe when I see writing in passive voice -- and thanks to him, am conscious about adopting the apposite word in a given context.
As I try to teach my students to write efficiently and get frustrated when they can barely string two words together, I find myself actually sympathising with Mr Sanyal! I honestly never did think I would be tempted to lash out like he did, but have come close to doing so several occasions. But I always remember how his temper would affect students and have learned to keep mine in check.
So aside from learning how to write I suppose Mr Sanyal also inadvertently taught me how to teach. We never do think of telling people that we have learned something from them (and honestly, I don't know if I would have done so had he been alive). But I did want to share this with you, who have known him perhaps far better than I did.
Thank you for letting me know about Mr Sanyal's death. Like Vijay, I must admit that being his student was nerve racking, to say the least. But I was shocked and saddened by this news.
Surprisingly, I've thought about Mr Sanyal many times in the last decade, (he would even rant in my dreams). As someone who is now herself a teacher I've spent a fair amount of time reflecting upon effective pedagogical strategies, and reviewed those of my mentors. I remember reluctantly coming to the conclusion that Mr Sanyal was (despite my deep seated resistance to him), among the finer teachers I've had. Like my peer in ACJ I still cringe when I see writing in passive voice -- and thanks to him, am conscious about adopting the apposite word in a given context.
As I try to teach my students to write efficiently and get frustrated when they can barely string two words together, I find myself actually sympathising with Mr Sanyal! I honestly never did think I would be tempted to lash out like he did, but have come close to doing so several occasions. But I always remember how his temper would affect students and have learned to keep mine in check.
So aside from learning how to write I suppose Mr Sanyal also inadvertently taught me how to teach. We never do think of telling people that we have learned something from them (and honestly, I don't know if I would have done so had he been alive). But I did want to share this with you, who have known him perhaps far better than I did.
More doffs of the hat
Two tributes in newspapers. Ravinder Kumar of The Stateman wrote this obit:
http://www.thestatesman.net/page.arcview.php?clid=2&id=226119&usrsess=1
while Ram has written this moving piece in Mid-Day:
An angry man called Jyoti
Obits are being written all over India for Jyoti Sanyal, the journalism guru who died in Kolkata last week. I had seen him every day for three years when he was in Bangalore, and for someone in his fifties, he looked young and fit. When I heard the news of his passing, I wondered how someone like him could have had a stroke. “It was his temper,” said C K Meena, who knew him closely as a colleague at Asian College of Journalism.
Meena (now a columnist for The Hindu), Vishweshwar Bhat (editor, Vijaya Karnataka) and I taught at ACJ when Jyoti was dean (1997-2000), and we often watched him rage against the ugly style that rules our English language newspapers. He certainly was an angry man, but the anger was more ideological than personal. He shouted at students who turned in clumsy copy, and flung insults that left them reeling. But a trainee just had to write one nicely worded story for him to fall in love with her (He mentored the boys with equal concern).
Jyoti blamed the bad English of the Indian newspapers on two influences. Indians, he believed, thought in their own tongues, and then translated their thoughts into English, which is why they don’t find expressions such as “I am having two brothers” wrong. Second, he was convinced the merchant language of the East India Company had overwhelmed Indians and left them incapable of clarity of thought and expression. Jyoti called it “baboo English” because it used “scraps of commercialese such as same/the same; the said letter; aforesaid letter; duly noted, and Kindly instead of please, and so on.”
When I first heard about Jyoti’s insistence on English that sounded like English and not like an Indian language, I thought he was one of those literal school-teacher types, obsessed with textbook correctness. I had discovered the psychedelic beauty of Salman Rushdie’s prose, and had earlier enjoyed the bold Kannada-coloured English of Raja Rao’s novel Kanthapura. I had arrived at the position that Indians writing in English ought not to feel apologetic about bringing in their own cadences and idioms into English. But I soon realised Jyoti was bristling against something else altogether, and at one point he acknowledged my argument that English would be enriched, and not impoverished, if we applied our native imagination to it.
Looking back, Jyoti looks like a Naxal of the newspaper world, incensed not so much by personal injury as by the absence of a just system. And he carried himself around like an ideologue with his own idea of fashion, wearing oversized goggles, puffing away on a Wills Filter, and outfitted in jeans and cowboy-style zip-up boots.
When we published an obit for Jyoti in MiD DAY yesterday, we headlined it ‘Enemy of the cliché’. Ashish Mukherjee, the author, had almost ruined his chance of getting an ACJ seat when he said he wanted to become a journalist and fight for some great cause. Jyoti believed Ashish had “airy fairy” ideas about journalism, and decided to turn him away, but changed his mind at the last minute. Ashish came down from Delhi and and turned into one of Jyoti’s fervent disciples. He went back to work for Indian Express and CNN-IBN in that city.
Jyoti’s students now populate newspapers and TV channels across India, and are conscious they have the responsibility of carrying forward his crusade against shoddy writing. On their blog (http://acjbillboard.blogspot.com), they have been sharing stories about Jyoti. Elsewhere, Ravinder Kumar, editor of The Statesman when Jyoti wrote its style book, describes him as a man of style and great substance.
Here in MiD DAY, we bought copies of his book Indlish for all our journalists as soon as it hit the stands a year ago. We didn’t know it then, but our preference for it over The Economist Style Book had pleased Jyoti, and he had felt vindicated that a newspaper was trying to put his ideas into practice.
Jyoti didn’t teach me anything overtly, perhaps because he felt it would be indecorous to instruct a colleague, but I watched him at work, and picked up Ekalavya-like! writing and editing techniques that have proved invaluable in my journalistic career. I know this is belated, but thanks, Jyoti!
http://www.thestatesman.net/page.arcview.php?clid=2&id=226119&usrsess=1
while Ram has written this moving piece in Mid-Day:
An angry man called Jyoti
Obits are being written all over India for Jyoti Sanyal, the journalism guru who died in Kolkata last week. I had seen him every day for three years when he was in Bangalore, and for someone in his fifties, he looked young and fit. When I heard the news of his passing, I wondered how someone like him could have had a stroke. “It was his temper,” said C K Meena, who knew him closely as a colleague at Asian College of Journalism.
Meena (now a columnist for The Hindu), Vishweshwar Bhat (editor, Vijaya Karnataka) and I taught at ACJ when Jyoti was dean (1997-2000), and we often watched him rage against the ugly style that rules our English language newspapers. He certainly was an angry man, but the anger was more ideological than personal. He shouted at students who turned in clumsy copy, and flung insults that left them reeling. But a trainee just had to write one nicely worded story for him to fall in love with her (He mentored the boys with equal concern).
Jyoti blamed the bad English of the Indian newspapers on two influences. Indians, he believed, thought in their own tongues, and then translated their thoughts into English, which is why they don’t find expressions such as “I am having two brothers” wrong. Second, he was convinced the merchant language of the East India Company had overwhelmed Indians and left them incapable of clarity of thought and expression. Jyoti called it “baboo English” because it used “scraps of commercialese such as same/the same; the said letter; aforesaid letter; duly noted, and Kindly instead of please, and so on.”
When I first heard about Jyoti’s insistence on English that sounded like English and not like an Indian language, I thought he was one of those literal school-teacher types, obsessed with textbook correctness. I had discovered the psychedelic beauty of Salman Rushdie’s prose, and had earlier enjoyed the bold Kannada-coloured English of Raja Rao’s novel Kanthapura. I had arrived at the position that Indians writing in English ought not to feel apologetic about bringing in their own cadences and idioms into English. But I soon realised Jyoti was bristling against something else altogether, and at one point he acknowledged my argument that English would be enriched, and not impoverished, if we applied our native imagination to it.
Looking back, Jyoti looks like a Naxal of the newspaper world, incensed not so much by personal injury as by the absence of a just system. And he carried himself around like an ideologue with his own idea of fashion, wearing oversized goggles, puffing away on a Wills Filter, and outfitted in jeans and cowboy-style zip-up boots.
When we published an obit for Jyoti in MiD DAY yesterday, we headlined it ‘Enemy of the cliché’. Ashish Mukherjee, the author, had almost ruined his chance of getting an ACJ seat when he said he wanted to become a journalist and fight for some great cause. Jyoti believed Ashish had “airy fairy” ideas about journalism, and decided to turn him away, but changed his mind at the last minute. Ashish came down from Delhi and and turned into one of Jyoti’s fervent disciples. He went back to work for Indian Express and CNN-IBN in that city.
Jyoti’s students now populate newspapers and TV channels across India, and are conscious they have the responsibility of carrying forward his crusade against shoddy writing. On their blog (http://acjbillboard.blogspot.com), they have been sharing stories about Jyoti. Elsewhere, Ravinder Kumar, editor of The Statesman when Jyoti wrote its style book, describes him as a man of style and great substance.
Here in MiD DAY, we bought copies of his book Indlish for all our journalists as soon as it hit the stands a year ago. We didn’t know it then, but our preference for it over The Economist Style Book had pleased Jyoti, and he had felt vindicated that a newspaper was trying to put his ideas into practice.
Jyoti didn’t teach me anything overtly, perhaps because he felt it would be indecorous to instruct a colleague, but I watched him at work, and picked up Ekalavya-like! writing and editing techniques that have proved invaluable in my journalistic career. I know this is belated, but thanks, Jyoti!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Fire and Ice
By KC Vijaya Kumar (batch 1997-98)
Let me be honest upfront. I never had a great equation with Mr Sanyal. We were the first batch to learn from him at ACJ and understandably there were misgivings. He was a man who spoke his mind, never held his punches back and it did not help that his irritation over the use of wrong English got aggravated on reading the dailies and obviously his mood in the mornings could be quite taxing.
But there was no faulting his commitment to helping us improve our writing as well as editing skills. If many of us in that batch manage that odd tightly-written copy, it is thanks to him. But while studying under him, he was the feisty `old-man' with strong biases and prejudices when compared to the serene Mr Ramakrishna and the ever-smiling CK Meena. It didn't help that he was perhaps teaching for the first time and we were a bunch of strong-willed individuals. It was a strange equation - we loved his linguistic repertoire, his skill to enhance the readability of our copies but at the same time our personal equations with him sucked. But credit to him, we could walk into his cabin anytime and say what we didn't like about his approach and he would listen, argue and then give up with a resigned air. And while he would improve our way with words, he did lacerate a few with his acid-tongue. But he never held any grudges. I do fondly recall him mentioning my interest in sports journalism to a visiting faculty! He was never politically correct and in this age of too much sugar, he was indeed a relief though I guess we all realised it a bit late. Sir, thanks for the memories. Never got a chance to tell you earlier, we have had our fights with you but we always respected you. You were one of the finest teachers I have had in my life. Wish I told you that earlier.
Let me be honest upfront. I never had a great equation with Mr Sanyal. We were the first batch to learn from him at ACJ and understandably there were misgivings. He was a man who spoke his mind, never held his punches back and it did not help that his irritation over the use of wrong English got aggravated on reading the dailies and obviously his mood in the mornings could be quite taxing.
But there was no faulting his commitment to helping us improve our writing as well as editing skills. If many of us in that batch manage that odd tightly-written copy, it is thanks to him. But while studying under him, he was the feisty `old-man' with strong biases and prejudices when compared to the serene Mr Ramakrishna and the ever-smiling CK Meena. It didn't help that he was perhaps teaching for the first time and we were a bunch of strong-willed individuals. It was a strange equation - we loved his linguistic repertoire, his skill to enhance the readability of our copies but at the same time our personal equations with him sucked. But credit to him, we could walk into his cabin anytime and say what we didn't like about his approach and he would listen, argue and then give up with a resigned air. And while he would improve our way with words, he did lacerate a few with his acid-tongue. But he never held any grudges. I do fondly recall him mentioning my interest in sports journalism to a visiting faculty! He was never politically correct and in this age of too much sugar, he was indeed a relief though I guess we all realised it a bit late. Sir, thanks for the memories. Never got a chance to tell you earlier, we have had our fights with you but we always respected you. You were one of the finest teachers I have had in my life. Wish I told you that earlier.
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