It's 11. 58 pm. Two investigating officers sit huddled in a cubicle behind me, rummaging through sheafs of press releases; most of them faxed invites to media launches
Tinaz Nooshian,
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Editor Sunday MiD Day, Group Features Editor, MiD Dayu00a0
It's 11. 58 pm. Two investigating officers sit huddled in a cubicle behind me, rummaging through sheafs of press releases; most of them faxed invites to media launches. Occasionally, they flip the pages over, pull the sheet closer to decipher a wooly ballpoint scrawl of quick jottings and mobile numbers.
They are not supposed to be here.
A man far taller, more gentler, a holder of many more secrets is meant to settle in, somehow managing to snugly take one corner so that a reporter from the crime team he heads can sit comfortably by his side while he edits his copy.
But Mr Dey, as most of us felt compelled to call him after a brief education in his heroic undercover reportage, won't be walking in through that door; his unmissable lofty gait softened by a slight stoop.
Because tonight, he is on the other side of the hedge ufffd being reported on. Maharashtra's CM Prithviraj Chavan says he is angry. PM Manmohan Singh says he is shocked.
His colleagues in the newsroom fighting a deadline to put the Sunday edition to bed, are confused.
How did a man who wrote about the police making serious headway in wiping out the underworld get nine bullets pumped into him at a busy suburban junction thronged by weekend shoppers in the middle of the afternoon?
After the questions, comes the anger, helplessness even. And then, the recognition of loss ufffd the frequent Sunday morning SMS from Mr Dey politely inquiring, 'Do you have space?'
I'd soon realise, two weeks into taking over as editor of Sunday MiD Day, that what that meant was, 'Would you like a 1,200-word investigative piece on the blackmail tactics of Somalian pirates?'
My features background, which tends to work against me often, had perhaps given him a sense that I'd be intolerant to crime news. Blood-and-gore don't go well with news of gnocchi and Pinot noir. But a couple of chats about an investigative feature on the wasted lives of now-redundant informers, changed his mind, I suppose.
A shared affinity for animals (dogs in particular), trees and activities of organisations like the Bombay Natural History Society (he was the only other person who was excited ufffd or worried ufffd at receiving a press release about the possible extinction of the Great Indian Bustard) helped oil the chains of communication a bit
further.
It's 12.59 pm. The investigators have wrapped up, carrying bundled papers with them. The drawers lie empty, a spare Nokia charger abandoned, his chair swivelled away from his computer.
Mr Dey is supposed to be here.
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Group Sports Editor
When J Dey was not firing away on his keyboard, or mentoring younger journalists or away from his cell phone, he would stand outside my cubicle, watching me work.
He was too tall to ignore and when I found his presence either disturbing or too tempting to acknowledge, I would utter, 'Kya ho raha hai?'
He would say, 'I like being here (the sports bay).' Then, invariably came his often-asked question: "Sir, (he used to call everyone Sir) when are you sending me out on a sports assignment?" I regret not taking him seriously. He was keen, committed and above all, loved sports dearly.
Dey was known for his crime writing, but he also loved photography. In 1995, he accompanied me as a photographer for an interview with former Mumbai spinner Padmakar Shivalkar at his Tata Chemicals office at Bombay House. A few weeks ago, I dug out the photograph he shot and Dey came up with a 'those-were-the-days' smile.
He was convinced that match-fixing is still part of cricket and I would do everything to convince him that the sport was generally free of evil. Last year's spot-fixing controversy didn't do my chances of winning that argument any good. Dey probably won.
A few months ago, he enjoyed a few cricketing yarns. Appreciating his interest in anecdotes, I presented him with a book, but he didn't get time to read it. On Friday, he told me that he would start reading it soon. The following day, he made us all read the gory script of his killing. Saturday was a dull day ufffd the weather, his killing, our depressing times.
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Assistant Editor
The picture that went with his byline when he wrote a column for this paper, was that of a cap covering a face. Like that picture, J Dey worked in the shadowy world of crime, where most is hidden and surreptitious is a byword.
He sat only a few desks away from me in office, his head above the cubicle enclosure, attesting to his tall stature, as he typed out stories about the city's dark and deadly. It takes a man dedicated to his work to slice open the ugly underbelly of Mumbai with the precision of a surgeon. Mumbai's map is dotted by the underworld. From 'addas' to buildings where shootouts have taken place, this is all about a big city pockmarked by dons, gang wars, bloodlust and revenge.
Dey knew this world only too well. So well in fact, that he had compiled a lexicon of crime lingo in a book called Khallas which gave readers the A to Z of gangster talk ufffd morbidly fascinating gobbledygook to the layperson but so familiar to him.u00a0
I would often go up to J Dey's desk and ask him ufffd 'Dey, could you do an in-depth article for the centrespread pages (a daily double page feature) on something about the current crime scenario?' He would answer: "Yes, when do you want it?" Sure enough, it would be in my email inbox, a few days later, sinister and compelling all at once.
Now, I remember those pieces vividly. There was one about smuggling activity on the high seas. I headlined it: Once Upon A Crime in Mumbai; an obvious twist on Ekta Kapoor's movie about the underworld. Dey had smiled broadly when he saw the headline. The other was a piece about the transformation of Mumbai's red light area, a look at how the demographics were changing at Kamathipura.
Yet, Dey was more than a crime reporter. He was a football fan. I think back now on how keenly he had watched the football World Cup 2010, sitting on a bean bag opposite the TV in office, laughing and debating the merits of a player or the chances of a team with colleagues. Just two days ago, Dey, a colleague, and I were sitting in the MiDDAY canteen, drinking tea and discussing holiday destinations. Dey suggested Bhutan, a place still relatively untouched by modernity, whose serenity and silence were in direct contrast to the hustle of Mumbai.
He passed by my desk post that discussion, on the way to his workplace and bent over to look at a plastic packet near the computer. They were hard-boiled sweets. "Oh," he remarked as he grinned and looked more closely. "I don't like sweets," he said lightly as he moved on to where he sat. Now, I wish I had something salty in that packet that day.
It has just been a few hours post the news of his death, and phones are trilling shrilly. They are calls from TV reporters wanting to get a few 'bytes' for their news channels about J Dey, ironically responsible for breaking news ufffd (called scoops in journalistic parlance) ufffdu00a0 who has today become the subject of breaking news himself.
Anu00a0 emptiness wraps itself like a shroud in this newsroom, usually loud with clicking keyboards and phone interviews as journalists rush to complete their stories for the Sunday MiDDAY edition.
Early in my career, a senior journalist would remark jocularly as he saw frazzled reporters scramble to file in their stories as the clock ticked away, 'All journalists die not from heart attacks or cancer but deadline pressure'.
Not all of them. Some die from bullets.
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Chief Reporter
J Dey was an unassuming colleague whose fame came from his meticulously researched crime stories. Though few knew of his passion for the environment; he was also an animal-lover. Dey was very particular about his diet, which included non-oily food and kadak, sugarless chai. I recall a chat with Dey in our office canteen. He had carefully removed the foil that contained neatly folded chapattis. "My mother packed it for me," he said, looking at the chapatti, "It is a declaration of a mother's love; don't ever tell your ma you do not want to carry her dabba ufffdu00a0 it'll hurt her because all her love goes into making it for you and that's why it tastes so good."
Well-connected and trusted among his sources, police officers and colleagues, Dey was credited with exposes that others in the field would die for. Yet, he always keep himself busy with work. He was pretty reluctant to get himself photographed. He shied away from taking centrestage for his big crime breaking stories. A strapping 6'1", he could be mistaken for a spy at work. He never spoke of his achievements and believed in hard work.
Even at 56, he preferred to be amid his sources, at the crime scene, where he would report on-the-spot reactions.
He was a mentor and guide to young, aspiring crime journalists; they addressed him as 'Sir'. It is hard to believe that 'Sir' will not be around. The people who killed him may have succeeded, but Dey is with us. The principles he stood for, for which he fought for, will remain with us forever. A gun cannot kill that indomitable spirit.
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