<p>An army marches on its stomach. Well, so do journalists.</p>.<p>I realised this the hard way during my initial days as a reporter while accompanying the then Karnataka Chief Minister H D Deve Gowda on a tour of Bengaluru. Like every other chief minister, Gowda, too, had promised to make a Singapore out of Bengaluru and had set out in right earnest on a day-long inspection of development works in the city -- with a bus load of journalists and bureaucrats in tow.</p>.<p>As it was an early morning assignment, I had skipped breakfast, and by 1 pm, my stomach had begun to growl. But there was no sign of Gowda stopping for lunch. As the protests from within grew louder, I asked Gowda’s secretary: “Does the chief minister never get hungry?” And the aide let out a secret: “He has raagi mudde (millet balls) for breakfast, which keeps him energised at least until evening.”</p>.<p>Finally, the chief minister decided to call it a day at 5 pm, and we were served some short eats. Then on, every time I accompanied Gowda on his tours, I made sure I had an emperor’s breakfast before I set out.</p>.<p>In 1996, a massive stroke of luck elevated Gowda to the post of prime minister, though his party – the then united Janata Dal -- had only a handful of members in the Lok Sabha: 46, actually, out of 543! With Gowda’s ascendance to the highest office in the country, his staple food, too, attained national status -- with the government directing all State-owned five-star hotels to serve raagi mudde. But the mudde’s glory was short-lived as Gowda had to demit office in less than a year.</p>.<p>With no party able to provide a stable government at the Centre, the country had to face mid-term elections in 1999. I trailed Gowda during the campaign in his home turf Hassan, when he noticed me at a public rally and invited me to travel in his car. With the Bengaluru experience still vivid, I politely declined the offer and decided to go my own way.</p>.<p>By the time I toured the rest of the constituency and caught up with Gowda at 8 pm, he was delivering a fiery speech in a small town, his enthusiasm not in the least diminished. And this time, too, I was told, he had not broken for lunch.</p>.<p>I thanked my stars!</p>.<p>A wily politician, Gowda was known to vanquish all his enemies, and one of his most powerful weapons was a simple touch.</p>.<p>As cub reporters, we were warned by our seniors not to cross Gowda’s path: “If ever he lays his hand on your shoulder, you will be ruined.” Stories of his victims were aplenty, be it a scribe who was transferred to a remote village or a politician who lost office. Naturally, we maintained an arm’s length from him.</p>.<p>One evening, when he was still CM, we journalists were trooping out of the chief minister’s official residence ‘Anugraha’ after a press conference, Gowda, as usual, insisted on seeing us off at the door. Petrified that his hand would fall on my shoulder, I tried to quietly slink away, but he was quicker. Gowda laid his hand on my shoulder and said: “Thank you for attending the press conference.”</p>.<p>“I am doomed,” I said to myself. But that was not what happened. A few months later, I received a good career prospect and moved on in life, never to look back since. All that Gowda was trying to do was shower some affection, and how he had been maligned!</p>.<p>Today, I no longer hear journalists speak of the Gowda curse. I hope it broke with me.</p>
<p>An army marches on its stomach. Well, so do journalists.</p>.<p>I realised this the hard way during my initial days as a reporter while accompanying the then Karnataka Chief Minister H D Deve Gowda on a tour of Bengaluru. Like every other chief minister, Gowda, too, had promised to make a Singapore out of Bengaluru and had set out in right earnest on a day-long inspection of development works in the city -- with a bus load of journalists and bureaucrats in tow.</p>.<p>As it was an early morning assignment, I had skipped breakfast, and by 1 pm, my stomach had begun to growl. But there was no sign of Gowda stopping for lunch. As the protests from within grew louder, I asked Gowda’s secretary: “Does the chief minister never get hungry?” And the aide let out a secret: “He has raagi mudde (millet balls) for breakfast, which keeps him energised at least until evening.”</p>.<p>Finally, the chief minister decided to call it a day at 5 pm, and we were served some short eats. Then on, every time I accompanied Gowda on his tours, I made sure I had an emperor’s breakfast before I set out.</p>.<p>In 1996, a massive stroke of luck elevated Gowda to the post of prime minister, though his party – the then united Janata Dal -- had only a handful of members in the Lok Sabha: 46, actually, out of 543! With Gowda’s ascendance to the highest office in the country, his staple food, too, attained national status -- with the government directing all State-owned five-star hotels to serve raagi mudde. But the mudde’s glory was short-lived as Gowda had to demit office in less than a year.</p>.<p>With no party able to provide a stable government at the Centre, the country had to face mid-term elections in 1999. I trailed Gowda during the campaign in his home turf Hassan, when he noticed me at a public rally and invited me to travel in his car. With the Bengaluru experience still vivid, I politely declined the offer and decided to go my own way.</p>.<p>By the time I toured the rest of the constituency and caught up with Gowda at 8 pm, he was delivering a fiery speech in a small town, his enthusiasm not in the least diminished. And this time, too, I was told, he had not broken for lunch.</p>.<p>I thanked my stars!</p>.<p>A wily politician, Gowda was known to vanquish all his enemies, and one of his most powerful weapons was a simple touch.</p>.<p>As cub reporters, we were warned by our seniors not to cross Gowda’s path: “If ever he lays his hand on your shoulder, you will be ruined.” Stories of his victims were aplenty, be it a scribe who was transferred to a remote village or a politician who lost office. Naturally, we maintained an arm’s length from him.</p>.<p>One evening, when he was still CM, we journalists were trooping out of the chief minister’s official residence ‘Anugraha’ after a press conference, Gowda, as usual, insisted on seeing us off at the door. Petrified that his hand would fall on my shoulder, I tried to quietly slink away, but he was quicker. Gowda laid his hand on my shoulder and said: “Thank you for attending the press conference.”</p>.<p>“I am doomed,” I said to myself. But that was not what happened. A few months later, I received a good career prospect and moved on in life, never to look back since. All that Gowda was trying to do was shower some affection, and how he had been maligned!</p>.<p>Today, I no longer hear journalists speak of the Gowda curse. I hope it broke with me.</p>