I grew up reading GK Reddy's dispatches in The Hindu. For a budding journalist, he was nothing short of a phenomenon. At a time when most newspapers were stingy about giving bylines to their reporters, every story he wrote appeared under his proud signature. Each report had a certain authority about it, a certain flourish that made it stand out from the routine reporting of the day.

His sentences were not for the fainthearted reader. They were often long, sometimes extending into a paragraph of 150 words or more, but never meandering. They carried weight, rhythm, and precision. His vocabulary was so vast that, as a young reader, I often had to keep a dictionary at hand. Yet, I never skipped a single piece of his writing. He was, in the truest sense of the word, God to me.

So when I reached New Delhi in December 1973 to pursue a career in journalism, I was desperate to meet him in person. It felt like a pilgrimage I owed myself, a rite of passage before I could call myself a journalist.

Fortunately, I did not have to wait long to get a foothold in the profession. I joined the India Press Agency (IPA) as a reporter. When I joined this small news agency in 1973, I was given a proper appointment letter that clearly mentioned a pay scale with yearly increments. It also specified that my retirement age would be 58. There was at least a semblance of security, a sense that journalism was recognised as a regular profession with the safeguards that went with it.

How different the situation is today. Journalists in their twenties are routinely hired on contracts of one, two, or three years, with no assurance that their services will be extended. They live under constant uncertainty, forced to chase targets like salesmen rather than pursue the ideals of the profession. It is one of the reasons why the younger generation, despite their talent, is so vulnerable.

It was with the confidence of holding a formal letter of appointment that I knocked on the door of GK Reddy's office at the Indian and Eastern Newspaper Society (IENS) building on Rafi Marg.

By then, I had already done my homework on him. I knew he had a car, a secretary, and—luxury of luxuries in those days—an air-conditioned office. I was told he drew a salary of ?10,000 a month, equal to the salary of the President of India. He was, perhaps, the only bureau chief for whom the subscription to a news agency like PTI or UNI was made available at company cost.

It was no wonder, then, that Reddy seldom attended press conferences. Instead, he relied on agency copy to file his analyses and commentaries. That, I later realised, was exactly what the editors in Chennai expected of him.

When we exchanged pleasantries, he was cordial, but his advice to me was disheartening. He urged me not to persist with journalism. He argued that it offered poor service conditions and very little scope for career advancement.

To be frank, I was annoyed. Here was the man whom even Cabinet ministers courted with exclusive scoops, the man who shaped national narratives, telling me that journalism was not worth pursuing. It was like a king advising his subjects never to dream of becoming king because the crown was too heavy.

This week, more than five decades later, I realised Reddy's advice was not entirely baseless. I attended a three-day conference of the newly formed Senior Journalists Forum (SJF) at Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.

When the idea of the Forum was mooted by my former colleague, NP Chekutty, and others about three months ago, I promised him that I would attend the inaugural session. While I was at the Indian Express, I also handled a Diary column that appeared twice a week. Chekutty was one of the frequent contributors. For each piece, he received a modest ?100—a "princely" sum then, but barely a token today.

I travelled to Thiruvananthapuram not because I had money to spare. I know too well the struggles of retired journalists. I am fortunate that God still allows me to write for various journals. I can also rely on my wife's modest pension and the generous medical facilities that come with it. That is why I often call myself a "re-tyred" journalist—retired, yet re-purposed, trying to learn the ropes of writing in Malayalam for my column in Madhyamam.

But such is not the case with many of my colleagues. The conference brought together around 200 senior journalists from across India. Each of them had rich anecdotes to narrate—stories that could fill volumes. One veteran recalled how ace photographer Jayachandran persuaded Kerala's first Chief Minister, EMS Namboothiripad, and his ultra-conservative wife, to pose for a beachside photo shoot—an image etched in Kerala's political folklore.

I myself recounted the story of how I once stopped VP Singh's car, offering some of his companions a ride in mine so that I could interview him on the way. It was during that drive that Singh made the immortal remark: "It will be a national disaster if I become the Prime Minister." The Hindustan Times in Patna splashed it as the lead story, while the Delhi edition relegated it to the second lead. Such are the quirks of journalism!

The conference was not, however, a gathering of raconteurs. We were not there merely to entertain one another with tales of scoops and deadlines. We were there to reflect on a sobering reality: the precarious conditions of journalists after retirement. The hall was full of senior citizens, yet not one was given special preference—because everyone was equally old. While taking a group photo, I heard someone saying that all those who were above 80 could sit!

We often glorify the Press as the "fourth pillar" of democracy. The term, borrowed from Britain, originally described the press as the "Fourth Estate"—a power alongside the monarchy, the House of Lords, and the House of Commons.

I still remember attending a press conference addressed by Indira Gandhi in Bhopal, her first after imposing the Emergency. I dared to ask her a question, even though my salary at that time was a pittance. The audacity of journalists, despite their poor circumstances, was part of our professional pride.

But time and again, the same story emerged during the conference: after decades of service to the nation, journalists are left with nothing to fall back on. One retired reporter recalled being taunted by his own family: "What have you done for us? You were busy filing reports, satisfied with meagre pay, while we sacrificed our comforts." It was a painful confession, but it struck a chord with many in the audience.

Now consider the other three pillars of the state. Government employees—including the defence services—receive substantial pensions, revised regularly. Ministers, MPs, and MLAs, too, enjoy lifelong pensions, regardless of their personal wealth. Billionaires like Anil Ambani, celebrities like Sachin Tendulkar, and philanthropists like Sudha Murthy, who have served a term in Parliament, are entitled to pensions. Judges, from the lowest magistrates to Supreme Court justices, also receive handsome pensions. And what do journalists get?

I have completed 52 years as a full-time journalist. My pension is a princely ?1,520 per month. I began receiving it in 2007. In 18 years, it has not been increased by even one naya paisa. Initially, it covered my medicines. Today, it doesn't even buy my monthly insulin. I consider myself lucky. Many of my colleagues receive no pension at all.

Kerala stands as a partial exception. Nearly 25 years ago, during K Karunakaran's tenure, the state launched a contributory pension scheme for journalists. Today, around 1,600 retired journalists in Kerala receive ?11,000 a month. It is not a grand sum, but as the proverb goes, something is better than nothing. My friend and relative, John Mundakkayam of the Malayala Manorama, told me how punctually the pension would arrive in his bank account by the third of every month. Such reliability matters immensely in old age.

But even here, there are pitfalls. I recall the case of the late Jayachandran Nair, editor of the Kala Kaumudi and other Malayalam magazines. A feature on his pathetic condition moved me to write an open letter to Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan, urging him to extend a pension to Nair. To his credit, Vijayan responded, but his reply was disheartening: Nair had not joined the contributory scheme and hence could not be considered.

This illustrates the larger problem. Many journalists see themselves as kingmakers while in service. They believe their editorials move governments and their scoops shake parliament and state Assemblies. Only when retirement comes do they realise they were pawns all along.

In Delhi, accredited journalists can avail of the Central Government Health Scheme (CGHS). But they are treated as Class III or IV employees, not on par with IAS or allied service personnel. Accreditation itself is a privilege. Only a fraction of journalists covering Parliament or state assemblies qualify. Sub-editors, news editors, district correspondents, stringers, proof readers—those who actually produce the paper—are excluded.

Some states, including Delhi, provide pensions to accredited correspondents. I am not against this, but what about those who laboured unseen in the newsroom? Shouldn't they, too, be entitled?

Kerala funds its scheme by deducting 15 per cent from government advertisement bills. If the Centre adopted a similar model—say, 17 per cent—it could easily fund a national pension scheme for journalists. After all, the government already regulates wages, appoints Press Councils, and sets rules for the profession. Why should pensions be an exception?

In many states, journalists must declare they have "no other income" to qualify for a pension. I was once interviewed for a job by a retired Chief Justice of India. As I sat before him, I noticed the large file he was poring over and asked what it was about. He told me, with some pride, that he was doing international arbitration, which fetched him handsome amounts in US dollars—even as he continued to draw his pension without question. But if a retired journalist dares to supplement his meagre pension by freelancing or writing a column, he risks losing it altogether. Why this discrimination?

A friend of mine once moved to another state capital but kept it secret, fearing his accreditation—and with it his medical benefits—would be withdrawn. Compare this to MPs and MLAs who can live anywhere and still claim pensions without question. Many of our colleagues could not attend the SJF conference due to poor health. Medical care is a major concern. Retired journalists should be given subsidised health insurance.

Similarly, the 50 per cent railway concession for senior citizens—arbitrarily withdrawn during the pandemic—must be restored. Airlines, too, should extend meaningful concessions to senior journalists, not the token discounts that Air India and IndiGo currently offer. In any welfare scheme, senior journalists deserve a fixed quota. Most of them are not wealthy. They are dependent on children or charity, despite having spent their lives informing the nation.

The problems of retired journalists are the same whether they are in Kashmir or Kerala, Delhi or Diu. The Thiruvananthapuram conference resolved to transform the Senior Journalists Forum into a Federation, with state units affiliated to it. This is an encouraging step. I am particularly heartened that a sincere and dedicated person like Sandeep Dikshit has been elected as its president. I am confident he will provide purposeful leadership.

Governments—both at the Centre and in the states—must consider the demands raised. It is not charity but justice. Journalists, who dedicated their lives to strengthening democracy, deserve at least basic dignity in their twilight years. Let no retired journalist be left to suffer for want of a modest pension, health coverage, or travel support. They gave their lives to telling the nation's story; now the nation must ensure they do not fade into silence in penury.