Journalist Immy and the horror of child-labour

Experience, they say, is the best teacher. And I agree, for the most part. But is it fair when you thrust your hand into the fire and somebody else gets to feel the pain?

It’s not. But then, life rarely is...

This story goes back to the time when I was still a journalism student in a small town called Kottayam. My school, the Manorama School of Communication (MASCOM), was the offshoot of one of the bigger newspapers in Kerala.

Well, I was still a rookie back then - with an attitude that was brash and a perspective that was all black ‘n’ white. And in my new-found avtar as a scribe, changing the world topped my list of priorities.

Every week, we were supposed to submit three story ideas to Mr Thomas Oommen, the dictator and supreme commander of MASCOM (I don’t say this in contempt. Mr Oommen is one of the most fascinating persons I have ever seen — and I intend to blog about him soon). If you didn’t have them, it was advisable that you go to him with padding down the ass of your pants.

On that particular day, I was walking down Kottayam, searching for anything to write about, when I saw a young kid with Oriental features walk down the road. This was not something you see everyday in a place as down-south as Kerala, so I ran after him to enquire.

He was just fourteen years old, and he had come down all the way from Assam to work in a neighbourhood rubber tanning plant.

Child labour, AHA!

He was real helpful. And happy that maybe, just maybe, he may feature in a newspaper article.

Over a glass of orange juice, I asked him if I could come over to his factory to check things out, and interview his friends as well. The boy (his name was Som, I think) agreed eagerly, and we fixed an appointment at his place the next day.

The next day

The factory was the dirtiest I had ever seen. Thick sludge, liberally contaminated with grease and chemicals, covered the floor as big rats scurried all over its walls.

And in the middle of the muck worked young Assamese kids — their faces covered with grime and dirt. But the way they were showing me the place, you would have thought it was some Japanese palace.

It was then that the supervisor, a five-foot Malayalee, saw me. “Who are you??” he almost screamed. And when I told him that I was from Manorama, he almost burst his top.“You are a journalist?! Not allowed in this factory,” he started yelling. The noise brought the factory manager around, and thankfully, he did not think that throwing me out would be the right thing to do at this juncture.

“Hi,” I said, “I am a journalism student from MASCOM... And I would like to ask you a few questions about this factory.”

The manager, a plump person with a plastic smile, said: “Sure... I know the place looks a little messy, but we were planning to clean it within a week. And get some new machines.”

I got straight to the point: “Aren’t the children working in this factory under-aged? Som is only fourteen.”

I saw the smile transform into an expression of disdain. He called the kid and asked him his age. A little over nineteen, Som said, a worried expression on his face. He was in for it now. For trusting someone from a newspaper. For acting stupid.

I had a bad feeling about this, so I left.

Black, White and Grey

It was on the third day, while I was sitting and typing out my story, that I received the phone call. It was Som.

“They are going to fire me and everyone else under 18 years,” he said, his voice threatening to break with emotion, “I don’t know what to do now. I have two sisters and my dad can’t work... who will support my family now?”

Never in my life had I felt so guilty. I had cost a family its only bread-winner, all for a stupid story and some misplaced views.

“Could you get me a job,” he asked, “In your newspaper office as chowkidar, maybe?”

I couldn’t, to say the least. I was not even an employee and, in any case, a newspaper cannot afford to take a minor on its rolls. Bad publicity.

That evening, I went over to a senior reporter I knew in Manorama and asked him if he could try and dissuade the factory owner from firing them. He said he would try.

Life went on.

A month later...

A few months later, I was reminded of Som while I was attending a guest lecture at MASCOM. The speaker, a venerable old socialist, was speaking on child labour.

“We just can’t go out and get children removed from their jobs,” he was saying, “Please don’t assume that children like scrubbing dirty utensils when they should be out playing... they do so because of certain compulsions. What would you rather see — a child working out there, or starving out there?”

I could understand what he was saying. Abolishing child labour through force would be like throwing beggars into jail to end beggary.

After the lecture, I called the reporter and asked about Som. Apparently, he had spoken to the factory manager, who just kept giggling and saying: “Okay, Okay..”

I did not have any number to contact Som on and he certainly did not deserve another painful visit from the dumb-ass journalist from Manorama.

So, that was that. The blacks and whites had made way for the greys, and (probably) I had matured at the cost of somebody else's life.