Ajayan

I first met TJS George in November 1989, when I sought to move from Mumbai to Bengaluru (then Bangalore). In his Indian Express office, I was struck at once by his gravity, his elegance, his quiet authority - an impression that has lingered ever since. Our words were few, but enough; I left with the promise of joining him the following month.

It was his routine each evening to stride into the Desk, scanning the day’s important stories and often demanding to see the dummy of the Front Page. A raw hand then, I puzzled over his insistence on layout and display. Only months later did I realise I was watching a master at work - shaping a page into something of quiet beauty.

A few months later, dissatisfied with how things stood, he ordered the News Editor to reshuffle the Desk, leaving me in charge of a shift. It felt daunting, with seasoned hands moved to different corners. Embarrassed, I confessed it would be awkward to lead with so many seniors around. “You can do it,” he said, his tone stern but steadying - and in those words, I found a measure of courage.

The day Saddam Hussein attacked Kuwait was when I first had a true hands-on glimpse of a master craftsman. I reached the office two hours early, only to find him at the chief’s desk, sorting teleprinter reports by hand. Startled, he looked up and asked why I had come so early. “The Gulf War has begun,” I said. Without a word more, he asked me to take over and quietly withdrew to his cabin.

By 10 am the others, two trainee subs, had joined, and around 1 pm, just as I opened my lunch box, he stormed in, demanding to know if I had enough copy for a single page. He planned, he said, to bring out a Gulf War special within the hour. I assured him there were plenty of reports, and good pictures too. At the mention of pictures, his eyes lit up. I shut my lunch box, washed my hands, gathered the galleys, and placed them before him. Still, one question gnawed at me: how could a single page make an edition? I asked in nervous curiosity. His reply was instant, almost mischievous: “The other side will be in Kannada. One side Indian Express, the other Kannada Prabha.” A revolution in print; conceived in a heartbeat.

He sat across from me, pencil in hand, and in a few swift strokes sketched a dummy. Then, to my astonishment, he asked if it was fine. I was speechless - how could a veteran of such mastery look to me for approval? We moved to the layout section, and in minutes the page took shape under his eye. At times I chafed at his meticulousness; the thickness of a rule here, the spacing of a headline there, the placing of a picture. But when the strike copy came off the press, all that vanished. What lay before me was not just a page, but a lesson in how beauty could be coaxed out of newsprint. Sadly, somewhere, I lost the copy which I had kept as a treasure.

He insisted that everyone in the editorial speak in English. Once, I was chatting in my mother tongue with the veteran KGK (K Govindankutty) when TJS, passing by, remarked, “This is not a Malayalam newspaper. It’s an English one.” I later learned, with quiet amusement, that he sometimes joked about how I moved around the office with such ease that my dhoti never slipped; a small, playful testament to life under his watchful eye.

During my Bengaluru days, I was fortunate to meet RP Nair, the veteran publisher of Shankar’s Weekly, who had introduced greats like OV Vijayan and VKN. Once during early 2000, while chatting with a convalescing Vijayan in Kottayam - unable to speak and communicating only through scribbles - I mentioned my occasional visits from RP while in Bangalore. Vijayan, surprising his wife and sister standing nearby, suddenly burst into words: “RP launched me.” Struggling for more words, he scribbled that he wished to hear more about RP.

RP had moved from Shankar’s Weekly to Hong Kong with Far Eastern Review under TJS. In Bengaluru, he led a secluded life, venturing out only for lunch and dinner, joking that TJS and his wife would drag him home if they knew he was in the city. Once, I saw RP spit blood mid-cough. Startled, I asked what had happened. “Oh! It’s cancer from the pipe I smoked for years,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Found in a pool of blood, RP was rushed to hospital a few days later. Some relatives, learning of his condition, insisted on taking him to Kerala which was not at all his choice. TJS who learnt about RP being in hospital intervened, helping the family bring RP home, but a few months later, he passed away.

One evening, I picked up Kala Kaumudi and read TJS’s obituary: it began by noting that the script was prepared by RP but the last scene was reshaped by the Director above, and that RP met his end in Kerala. While on duty that night, I ran into TJS in the corridor. “I read that touching piece on RP,” I said. For the first time, forgetting he was in office, he broke into Malayalam: “Oh! Has it come out? I didn’t get it.” Almost immediately, he switched back to English: “I’ll try to lay my hands on a copy right away.”

He helped me secure a transfer to Kochi, and I moved from one newspaper to another. About a decade ago, I chanced upon him at Kaloor bus stand, rushing to the Express office. I greeted him, and suddenly, noticing my beard, he broke into Malayalam: “You look like a swami.” He said had just come from Kottayam by bus and was going to the office.

Taken aback, I replied in English as usual, yet he continued in Malayalam, asking after me and calling me “Saami” again and again. I smiled and corrected him gently, “Not saami, but aasaami.” He laughed, a deep, warm laugh, and went on his way. That fleeting, tender encounter - the humour, the affection, the quiet humanity - was the last I ever shared with that remarkable soul.

Adieu, great TJS Sir.