End of days or: A tour of the Bangalore court system

My time at the Deccan Herald can be summed up suitably by the final day.
 

I was assigned to cover an 'inauguration of the digital library' - I'm still not entirely sure whose library was being inaugurated - and was told to head to court.
    

I may not have managed to get the story, but I got a story.
   

Instructed to get an auto, I scribbled down an address from the brief blurb in a press release and headed out to catch my ride.
   

Now, this seems like it's heading in a familiar direction - one that ends with it becoming 'Kris' auto mishap #42'. But, on this occasion, the auto driver wasn't the problem. Quite the opposite, in fact.
   

But, even with his best efforts, assisted by an able supporting cast, I never made it to that digital library inauguration.
   

First stop was a building which shared its name with one from the release. Seems logical. Only, it looked unlike any court I had ever seen, and I found no inauguration on the third floor, nor anyone who knew a thing about it. After stumbling into an office, one helpful person fruitlessly checked the other floors, then I was on my way.
   

My auto driver had insisted on waiting while I checked - perhaps sensing the fare that would eventually follow - and I decided to simply try the instruction I was given. 
   

The first court we went to was the majestic High Court of Karnataka. Resplendent in rustic red, it made for a good photo opportunity but not the correct location. The security guards, reading what I had written down, seemed to know where I wanted to go and seemed to tell my driver as much. 
   

But what turned out to be the magistrate court was no good, either. There, another helpful gentleman told me to head to the civil court, just down the road. By that point I was running rather late and, in a warren of a third floor, failed to find any new digital libraries.
   

So I headed back to MG Road with my tail between my legs, paid my driver a small fortune and was reminded of the Yiddish proverb, 'Man plans, God laughs'.
   

(A phone, of course, would have come in handy. But my Blackberry, along with a bottle of hand sanitiser, disappeared from my bag in the newsroom one night. My hands have been filthy since.)
   

That adventure, unfortunately, epitomised a portion of my internship. Rogue auto drivers, incorrect email addresses and breakdowns in communication were commonplace.
   

But it's not my intention for it to appear all bad. Nor am I apportioning blame to anyone. I  screw up enough simple stuff on my own in New Zealand to know shit happens.
   

It may have been frustrating at times but that didn't dampen my overall experience.
 

I found it fascinating seeing how journalism worked in another culture, examining the many similarities and the vast differences. And I enjoyed my time on the streets, soaking up the sensory assault.
   

Sometimes I would be walking along MG Road and would almost switch off and become unaware of my surroundings. Then, a dog in its death throes would hobble past favouring a clearly broken leg, snapping me back to the reality of my location.
   

Just like sometimes in the newsroom I could imagine being in a similar space anywhere in the world. Then, I would go to the bathroom and see the gap in the ground where the toilet was normally found.
   

The newsroom itself operated just as others I have been in, which meant I, the intern, was left with a lot of the less glamorous stories. That gave me serious flashbacks to the early weeks at journalism school: wandering around an unfamiliar city searching for stories I cared little about.
   

It also reaffirmed my passion for sports journalism, not that it was ever in wane. In sports, even the smaller stories can hook me. I cannot say the same of general reporting.
   

But, again, I don't want to leave a negative impression. I will look back fondly on my time at the paper, recalling the eager and enthusiastic newsmakers, the easy camaraderie between reporters and the oddly ritualistic tea break.
   

It makes me want to do it again. Though, for my next trip, I would prefer a little less to be lost in translation.