Headline Maestro's Void

"I tried 11 times and couldn't get it right. Wow! How do you do it, sir?"

"I tried 12 times and got it right the twelfth time."

Firsts are always special, especially the first job right after college. 

An interview at one of India's oldest newspaper offices— in my favourite place in Mumbai— nervousness did peak at one point that day. However, all of it just vanished when I met the person who was going to change my life in more ways than one.

He wore a cap (I still can't imagine him without it because I have never seen him without it) and had a voice that could put anyone to ease.

I went back home after the interview in a happy state of mind. Soon, I was part of the newspaper office that gave me my first set of "colleagues" and workplace memories. And anchoring it all was the man wearing a cap(e) of kindness and gentleness. 

A rare and unmatchable sense of humour often led to laughter that reached outside the editor's room despite the glass cabin. Guess it peaked when the entertainment page was being approved for the next day, with Manasi ma'am and Ketan sir. The editorial page content also went for approval around the same time. And then there were the four of us. Great memories were made there.

I was to work on the editorial page. I asked him for tips. He told me to work as I would! And there was so much I learnt on the job, without even realising. Little things, each day... His weekly off became on Saturdays when he asked me when I would like to take mine and my reply was— Sundays, preferably. If there was an article that came late on Saturday for Monday's edition, he would tell me, "I'll take care. Go home!"

We celebrated festivals in office, to bring in warmth, colour and joy to a busy newsroom. I once walked up to him to ask if he would like to join us for a group pic and he replied with a smile, "Why do you want a picture with an old man?" 

Camera shy, his only picture, I guess is the one he finally put up on Facebook, after some coaxing, I suppose.

Borrowed without permission from sir's Facebook profile. I hope he's smiling. *Fingers crossed*

The cabin with the glass door was sort of a sanctuary. Had a doubt? Walk in. Worried? Walk in. It was always guaranteed that one would walk out after a dose of laughter or at least a smile on their lips.

The Free Press Journal's headlines always fascinated me. Much before I joined it. And when I witnessed sir— just realised I haven't named him yet, S S Dhawan, Shailender Singh Dhawan— brewing magic out of thin air, I was always in awe. I would often comment on the same and he would either laugh it off or counter it with some totally unrelated joke.

I still remember the day when I had gone to Mumbai University's Fort campus on a rainy afternoon to apply for the PET exam. Some documents were pending till the last day of application and I somehow managed to reach right on time with attested copies of those. However, they wanted 3 copies of a document that I didn't have that day. I crossed the road, an umbrella in one hand, and countless documents in another, braving the little pool that had started to form already on the road. And suddenly, the attested copies fell down. The ink smudged and there was no way that those would be accepted. I had tears in my eyes but I walked into office, almost giving up hope.

Dhawan sir immediately sensed that something was amiss. He called me in. I explained the situation and as usual, he just smiled and called the support staff. He asked me to give my original documents to him so that he could get copies of those. 

"When do you want these?", he asked.

"Tomorrow is the last date to apply, sir," I said.

"So you would need attested copies tonight. Right?"

I hung my head. "Yes, sir."

"It will be done. Don't worry!"

With a glimmer of hope in my eyes, I looked up at him. Within an hour's time, I had attested copies of my documents, thanks to sir and his wife. 

I applied for PET the next day and also cleared the exam. Sir was so happy when I told him that. 

After spending more than 2 years, when I was leaving the organisation, I went to his cabin, one last time, with a notebook.

"Thank you for everything, sir. You have been a great mentor and support system. Can you write something for me here, so that I can treasure it forever?"

All the best, he said, with his trademark smile in place. The message?

'Go home.' Signed, S S Dhawan.

You set the standard for a good boss too high in my life, sir! Thank you for all that you were. We will miss you and your headlines, of course. 

May the wizard of words create magic on the other side. Until we meet again and I get to learn more from you... goodbye, sir— a hard one, indeed.