The best bits of a press conference are usually those that precede it. I am talking of the moments of anxious waiting before the politician reads out a prepared statement given to him by his additional secretary, stationed just behind his boss and trying desperately to enter the frame. “Hi, Sulochana! Hi, Rohit”, he wants to wave to his wife and kid through the medium of television and breaking news, unmindful that his boss’ way of life and lal batti are about to be snatched away by the High Command in the immediate aftermath of this press meet. There is immense jostling and pushing and shoving, and ultimately it is decided that no more than ten cronies will be allowed to fit in the 21” LCD casing. Those who have missed their 15 seconds of frame shall live to enter it some other time – the next denial of a corruption allegation, for example.

But the fun is not in watching the minister’s chums climbing over each other to get in the family Youtube album – that’s ancillary and beside the thrust of my thesis. The fun is in watching the media getting into position before any such conference. For it is illuminating beyond measure, of a nation’s customs and propensity for chaos.

There was a time when such press conferences were unheard of. To be sure, where was the need? One always had the government mouthpiece, Doordarshan. And Doordarshan never had any money. What it had, though, was an army of talented individuals battling in ICU for a chance to exhibit their talent, but made soporific through drips that passed on the virtues of socialism and an assured monthly salary.

To emerge in the afternoons from the air-cooled confines of Mandi house into the scorching vistas of central Delhi for a press conference was a strict no-no. Ask the PMO to hand-deliver the comment on the economy or the denial of an engineered riot, they’d bark at the bakelite receiver before plonking it down on the cradle. As a result, the gorgeous aunties and baritonal uncles who read the news bulletin never had to “Go Live” anywhere, and especially to a minister’s lawn. There was no uncomfortable questioning, no heated debate, no putting the neta on the spot.

Doordarshan was an idyll that showcased all the good qualities of Indians which they never possessed. The anchors always spoke softly and clearly, the advertisements never ridiculed dark skin, the soaps never promised a cure for an assortment of infections (the bathing soaps, that is). People didn’t like Doordarshan, they looked up to it.

Naipaul once made a prescient observation (when has he not?). The Brits, he said, adored the Raj because out here they could peddle all those outrageous buildings: the Victoria Terminuses and Memorials, the Rashtrapati Bhavans, the Lutyen’s Bungalows – which they couldn’t dream of commissioning back in Britain. The Raj was an apparition for them, a haven, where once in a while a bored English family could come and spend a few months – enjoy the sun, knock off a few cats, roam the colonnades, and all under the care of a turbaned servant holding a parasol. The Raj was a mirage they liked to touch every now and then.

Much in the same vein, we loved to break queues, fight over petty things, bribe the traffic police, steal electricity, smuggle gold, stash black money, disregard traffic lanes, ignore red lights, instigate riots, commit honour killings, mix urea in milk, sell horse shit as dhania powder…but come evening time, we all sat in front of EC or Weston TV and lapped up Hum Log and Pashchatya Sangeet and evening news. We heard in rapt attention, clipped accents informing us of a new government initiative for the poor, of yet another scheme that would help achieve parity among the haves and the have nots. We were mesmerised by Ramu’s unblinking eye and enduring breaths that expelled whole paragraphs of Congress achievements in one go. We noticed Neethi’s new hair cut, Meenu’s new pendant, Gitanjali’s new sari. They were our showpieces, our trendsetters, our touch-me-nots, just like Rakesh Sharma – the guy who tagged along with the Soviets for a return trip to outer space – was for millions of aspiring engineers and scientists.

Well, the Raj is gone, and so is Doordarshan’s monopoly, and what do we have here? Yes, a thousand news channels, all trying to ‘Go Live’: to the minister’s lawn, the Police HQ, the Supreme Court, or sometimes even a superstar’s veranda.

The minister’s lawn is the finest illustration, simply because the lawn is so enormous and there is enough space for all. And yet, the space is not enough. At the risk of repeating, those first few minutes before the cynosure of all eyes opens his mouth are essential viewing. You miss them and you might as well leave the news channels alone and watch a bona fide entertainment channel for your entertainment needs.

Right, then. The sprinklers have been turned off and the golden retrievers hoarded inside the servant quarters. The lawns are teeming with mic-wielding gents and camerapersons and those zeitgeists who still prefer to take down the minister’s lies in short-hand. There is a long coffee table that’s been arranged in the lawn, across which the minister and his advisors wait patiently. In comes the machinery. The camera tripods take precedence, like in a Star Wars battle. They are, after all, the artillery. Behind them, hell-bent on suffocating each other, are the hundreds of infantrymen of the fourth estate. They have a question apiece and have been instructed by their media barons that, come what may, they have to pose them or they’d be transferred to the Chattisgarh beat. The microphones, meanwhile, are thrown together in their tens on the coffee table, with their wires dangling like a dead alien’s limbs. They each have a battered sponge sleeve that displays the logo of the news channel. Obviously, some clever media-head decided that the larger the sleeve, the higher the TRPs. India TV scores overwhelmingly in this regard. Their sleeve is so long and thick that it overpowers the other mikes as a Greco-Roman wrestler would his unsuspecting fellow-grapplers.

Someone switches on the electricity, or revs the generator, depending upon where the conference is being held. In central Delhi it would be electricity; Gurgaon or Ghaziabad it’d be the generator.

The politician opens his mouth to utter pleasantries. The press conference commences. But wait a minute – it doesn’t! There’s still some confusion whether all the media persons who’ve been personally invited by the politician are present or not. They are all here, sir, whispers the secretary in the politician’s ear. Satisfied, he begins in earnest. My dear friends, he says, clearing his throat.

Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. There’s a human wave coming from behind about to crush those down on their knees or squatting in the front, exactly like what used to happen in the old days in the Liverpool FC kops. The politician has no choice but to stop. He looks perplexed and a little disgusted. But his disgust is the last thing in the minds of those who’ve gathered to listen to what he has to say.

“Oye, Harish! Pull your head down, yaar!” “Arey, just move a little away, man.” “God dammit, who pushed me?!” “Hey, just a minute, Meera.” “Get down!” “Don’t push!” “Don’t pull!” “Give side!” It’s a reporter-frenzy out there, each man haggling for his pound of hilsa at the Chittaranjan Park fish market. The minister and his cronies watch helplessly as the mob moves and judders like a poked jelly. Those who’ve taken the Mumbai suburban in the evenings would know what I’m talking about: it is easy to forget where one is headed – the crushing priority is to survive the ordeal.

And this is before the conference has even begun! What happens afterwards is well known and doesn’t merit analysis. Yes, yes, we know, the politician denies all charges, claims a foreign hand, and demands a CBI probe. If he belongs to the opposition party, then he doesn’t demand a CBI probe.

The very journalists who behave in the fashion described roll their eyes and holler in disgust whenever there’s uproar in the Houses of Parliament. What supreme irony! I’ve often wondered why the Press Council of India doesn’t print guidelines for how to behave just before a press conference. They can even title their order as: “How to Behave Just Before a Press Conference”. After all, they are old enough to have watched Doordarshan and admired its civility and order and discipline. Perhaps now they don’t watch DD anymore than we do.