And Then, The Cashew Tree Shed a Dozen Leaves

Adieu, Sir
“Sanjoo...” Will you call me that again? Weeping kin carrying your lifeless frame pass by me to the waiting funeral pyre. Tears brewing behind my eyelids, I stand watching you who, once upon a time, would have run up to me with a smile on your face and open hands.
Vijayan Sir, Chennai, with you, had been joy for us – me and the many friends who saw in you the quintessential friend, philosopher and guide. Remember, Sunday mornings at my little den in Triplicane used to reverberate with activity and you were at the presiding slot. We discussed Marx and Mohanlal in the same vein. We sang, and listened to, songs that stirred in you nostalgia of the emotional kind. You made merry with us when we sang; You were with your daughter, mother and wife when you listened to the songs by the masters.
Salimbhai's chicken curry, Joe's maverick sportiness, Sunesh's unique toddy-tapioca tales, Unni's measured, shy smile and Jimmy's stuttered utterances in Mallappally Malayalam – all evoked one liners of the best kind from you. It was revelry in your company. Oh, the way you loved it, it was like Sundays grew better week after week for you, for us, and for the paper we made the next day, week after week.
“Sanjoo, a spoon and a plate of chicken”, you would call out, every time I leap to the kitchen to see if the rice has boiled. Hunger for home made food was sure ignited in every one when you had your first spoonful. The chicken curry is ready to be devoured, you would proclaim. Once in a while, Prem would arrive from Trichy in his inimitable style. You just loved being in the midst of us – eating drinking and making merry. Between the cup and the lip, we had our fill of Express days of yore, the Emergency, the past and the present as you told us what journalism used to be once upon a time.
Even as the bosses played truant, you worked with a smile. You corrected and guided the erring Sub. You re-wrote the incorrigible reporters so that they could smile the next day. You recast headlines making even the bosses writhe in envy.
Long back, in Srini’s tiny little lodge room in Kochi, remember, you had left us all in awe when you told us tales of an Indian Express that ceased to be. You then told us of the editors who knew what journalism really meant, you narrated to us the way reporters shook regimes. You made us believe in socially-committed journalism, you made us write, you made us all think and dream of good journalism.
As you fade into oblivion, my heart goes out to Express, who will miss you. Express has always been proud that you would walk in every day to make her look so attractive as she sails out of the press. She had always turned lovely when you touched her. The magic of your deft fingers on the key board and the command of the stern mind had always ensured that Express came out every morning so luring. Express will miss you. Journalism will miss you. Sir, hope you know, you were the best that Express ever got. The best ever.
Even as the pyre is lit, I await your Sanjoo call. Yes, I hear you call out to me to say good bye. Good bye sir, I’ll miss you all my life. My tiny efforts at good journalism will miss you.