By Rathin Das*
“Gentleman journalist” and “Gem of a person” would be cliché and most common phrases to describe Chandan Mitra who finished a much meaningful life on the night of 1 September. Certainly, he was all that, but much more.
Some common friends who knew both of us would say probably Chandan would have used these phrases for me if I had preceded him in the journey to eternity. Unfortunately, some of them have preceded Chandan in their last journey, notably Arindam and Diptosh.
My last conversation with Chandan was about two months back when I told him that I am still working on the book we discussed few years back. Book is delayed but I have meanwhile penned two plays which can be sent through email, I told him. He promised to send his email address after some time. When the email address didn’t come, I had a strange premonition that some thing is wrong with him.
Chandan was not my mentor in any way, but I had been a beneficiary of his decisions and interventions in my professional career. As we two admired one another greatly, my recollections of some slices of his life with me are likely to sound ‘blowing my own trumpet’. I seek prior apology from readers if it seems like that.
In our nearly 35 years of association, our face-to-face interaction would not count beyond two dozen as I am posted away from Delhi for more than three decades now. Notwithstanding the physical distance, we developed a strong professional bonding despite being ideologically poles apart.
The highest point of this ‘poles apart’ phenomenon came when I was rendered jobless at the age of 55 years. Chatting in his chamber over a cup of tea and cigarette, he suddenly offered me a job in the country’s first and probably only rightwing English daily then. Naturally, I refused but he insisted. He offered the job again, only to be refused again. Finally, Chandan said, exactly in these very words “Look Rathin, my ideology will remain with me, your ideology will remain with you. All I want from you is pure journalistic work. And I know you are capable to do that”. I was silenced into accepting his offer, with full protection of my last carry home pay. I am too small a person even to imagine if my professional rehabilitation was the reason behind Chandan being sidelined by the political establishment that nurtured him for nearly two decades.
Even while I was working for the right wing daily helmed by Chandan, I had insisted with many friends that he would some day leave what I subsequently nicknamed as “God’s Own Party”. He proved me correct three years before he left this world.
My first interaction with Chandan was when he was heading the national bureau of a prominent English daily and I was desperate to quit the paper where I was a sub-editor. One day I barged into his room with the fat black bag which many colleagues had nicknamed as my ‘Collected Works’. I wanted a reporter’s job, but Chandan said there is no such vacancy in Delhi. But he added that they are looking for correspondents in Patna and Guwahati. As I agreed to move out of Delhi, he asked for my clippings file and wanted to keep it with him overnight to read the articles properly. I instantly knew I will succeed if he actually reads the articles, as my earlier experiences showed that editors would just flip through the headings and then say there is no vacancy now. But I was also scared if my clippings were lost at his home or in transit. He probably sensed it and assured me “Don’t worry, I am also a journalist. I know the value of clippings to journalists. You will definitely get these back tomorrow afternoon”. I did, along with a compliment.
As soon as I entered his room next day, Chandan handed over the entire file and said “With such a style of writing, it is foolish for you to look for a reporter’s job. What I have in mind is that we will take you as Assistant Editor trainee and coach you to write editorials and lead articles”. I was asked to wait for a week.
Next morning, he had flown to Varanasi with the then Prime Minister for the launch of Ganga Action Plan. On return, he had a tiff with the newspaper’s owner and quit in a huff.
Our next meeting was in Kanyakumari when we both were covering the launch of the Ekta Yatra led by BJP stalwart Murli Manohar Joshi. It was a brief interaction of no consequence, except recalling that we had met earlier in Delhi.
My professional interaction with him started when he joined the same newspaper which had sent me to Kerala. To shorten the long list, Chandan stood by his people, encouraged unconventional reporting, was open to new ideas and always allowed travel.
“If there is an interesting spot of tourist interest, heritage or archaeological site on a tour’s route, journalists should take time off to visit it, even if you are not required to report on it now”, Chandan told me once while travelling together.
Just an hour before we embarked on that election tour in February 1995, Chandan and I (both bearded then) met another bearded man in a small backside room of a political party in Ahmedabad. After half an hour’s chat between the three bearded men, the party organizing secretary signaled towards me to say “In six months, he has changed the paradigm of Gujarat’s reporting in national press”. As I was perplexed to know that he has kept track of exactly how months ago I came to Gujarat, Chandan told him with little pride “Yes, yes, that’s why we brought this youngster from Kerala”. Full 15 years later, during a chat about our school days, I discovered that Chandan was actually five months younger to me.
One big example of Chandan always supporting the colleague’s diametrically opposite viewpoint was when I had written a news analysis saying that the Additional DGP (Prisons) then on the run seems to have been ‘framed’ but the paper’s editorial on the subject hailed the Gujarat Government for having ‘busted’ a terrorist conspiracy he was supposed to be part of. My news analysis and the third editorial on the opposite page actually touched one another at the centre-fold. I remained scared but no action was taken against me. Three months later, during my Delhi visit Chandan told me “You shouldn’t have come out in defence of an IPS officer accused of ISI conspiracy”. I asked him “then why didn’t you drop it?” Prompt came the reply “But we carried it because I have full faith in you. If you have written it, you must have a point”.
Three-and-half years later, I was vindicated following a series of CBI probes, court proceedings and CAT verdict as the Additional DGP was absolved of all charges. By then Chandan had moved on but acknowledged my point when we met next time.
With such pleasant memories in a profession where bosses most often end up as sworn enemies, it is appropriate to mention that I had a ‘grand’ strange plan with Chandan whenever my book is published. My plan was sending my book to him with a personal note like this :
“Dear Chandan, you are certainly on top of the list of people whom I would love to present my book as a complimentary copy. But my good fortune of having such friends in large number puts me in an unfortunate situation of not affording that venture. Still, I am not interested in receiving the price of this book from you but will eagerly await your comments on it”.
Alas, that wait would be eternal now. Goodbye, Chandan.
*The writer is a senior journalist
