You Are Right, Dr. Baru: The Fourth Estate Needs a Mirror, Not a Megaphone

I walked into the hall “accidentally,” they say. But sometimes accidents are divine interventions. The topic on the banner — “Anubhavalu and Gnapakalu” (A Journalist’s Experiences and Remembrances) — was too tempting to ignore. Organized by the Veteran Journalists Association, the very idea itself felt like a quiet act of rebellion in an age when journalism is measured in TRPs, trending hashtags, and corporate dividends rather than truth and public trust.

And for this rare, refreshing event, the chief guest was none other than Dr. Sanjay Baru — an economist-turned-journalist who once occupied the inner corridors of power as Media Advisor to Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh. Baru shot to national prominence with his book The Accidental Prime Minister, a work that peeled back the carefully maintained façade of the UPA years and suggested, not too subtly, that many of the real shots were being called from 10 Janpath rather than the Prime Minister’s Office.

So when he took the microphone — as the day’s chief guest and principal speaker — the room, mercifully, fell silent.

Baru is not a man cut from the flimsy fabric of today’s newsroom celebrity culture. He comes from an illustrious lineage — the son of B.P.R. Vithal, a towering bureaucrat, former Chief Secretary, and member of the Planning Commission. An economist by training, a professor by profession, and a journalist by what he himself calls “accident,” Baru has lived at the rare and volatile intersection where academia, media, and political power collide.

And collide they did.

From lecture halls at Osmania University and the Central University to the editorial nerve centers of The Economic Times and The Financial Express, Baru did not merely observe the system — he lived inside its bloodstream. Then came the ultimate front-row seat to governance: serving as media advisor to Prime Minister, Dr. Manmohan Singh. It was there, he suggested, that the curtain truly lifted.

Behind the carefully worded press statements, the choreographed briefings, and the performative outrage of television studios, Baru encountered journalism in its rawest form — ambitious, compromised, principled in parts, and disturbingly transactional in others. Power, he implied, doesn’t just influence the media. It courts it, cultivates it, and when necessary, consumes it.

Sitting in that hall, listening to a man who had seen both the newsroom and the PMO from the inside, one couldn’t help but feel that this was not a nostalgic walk down memory lane. It was an autopsy — of a profession that once prided itself on speaking truth to power, and now often seems more comfortable whispering into it.

Baru didn’t romanticize journalism. He dissected it.

With clinical precision, he divided the fraternity into three species. First, the professionals — journalists who still feel a quiet thrill when their work is praised for merit, not for allegiance. Second, the corrupt — the ones who, in his blunt words, are the hardest to handle, because their loyalty doesn’t lie with truth, readers, or even ideology, but with whoever pays the next bill. He didn’t shy away from mentioning the whispered reality of credit cards, “expenses,” and political hospitality masquerading as professional networking.

And then came the third category — perhaps the most tragic — the resigned. Journalists who show up, file their copy, collect their salary, and go home. No fire. No fight. No fourth estate. Just a content factory.

But Baru saved his sharpest scalpel for business journalism — a world he knows intimately. According to him, this is where corruption often wears a tailored suit and speaks the language of “market sentiment.” He spoke of journalists who allegedly look the other way on insider trading, who soften stories on regulatory failures, who blur the line between analysis and advertisement. Even watchdogs like SEBI, he hinted, struggle when political connections shield media operators from scrutiny.

Then he asked the question that made the room uncomfortable.

If politicians must declare their assets before and after holding office, if bureaucrats must submit to vigilance and audit, if judges are dissected in prime-time debates — why are journalists exempt?

Why does the fourth pillar of democracy stand on a foundation that is never inspected?

It is a question that lands like a slap, not a suggestion.

Today’s Indian media landscape is no longer just divided into “left” and “right.” It is carved up by corporate boardrooms, political war rooms, and advertising contracts. Newsrooms have become brand extensions. Anchors are marketed like influencers. Editorials often read like press releases in better English.

We shout about transparency in Parliament, in courts, in ministries. But when it comes to ourselves, the newsroom suddenly discovers the sacredness of privacy.

Baru’s provocation deserves to be taken further. Why shouldn’t journalists disclose their assets when they enter the profession and when they rise to the top? Why shouldn’t editors, who shape public opinion for millions, be held to the same ethical standards they demand of lawmakers?

This is not about witch-hunts. It is about credibility.

Because when the public begins to believe that every headline has a sponsor, every debate a political master, and every “exclusive” a hidden transaction, journalism doesn’t just lose trust — it loses its right to preach.

As someone who still believes in this battered profession, I say this with no joy but full conviction: the fourth estate in India doesn’t just need reform. It needs introspection, regulation, and — above all — courage. The courage to turn the spotlight inward.

If journalists wish to remain the watchdogs of democracy, they must first prove they are not owned by the very powers they claim to scrutinize.

Dr. Baru didn’t merely share memories on Monday afternoon—he issued a challenge.

The real question is: does Indian journalism still have the spine to accept it?