Memories etched in time

My first interaction with Sir, as I called J Dey, goes back to 2006. Till then I only knew him through articles that appeared in The Indian Express and later the Hindustan Times. As a correspondent then, handling the transport beat, I was desperately looking for someone who owned a Mercedes. My then editor insisted that I get one by hook or crook. With all my colleagues in the reporting bay laughing away at my situation, the day suddenly started looking dull.

Just as I was pondering over my plight, the six-footer J Dey looked at me. A towering personality, he walked up to me. I could barely manage a smile. 'Patrao' (meaning boss in Portuguese) he said in his usual style, which would switch between him calling me either Patrao or Chief. Dey was grinning. "Let's go in 30 minutes. I have your guy with a Mercedes." I was beaming. In less then an hour we were on his bike headed to Diamond Garden.

Knowing my Goa connection, the two of us religiously spoke a few sentences in Konkani ufffd which he had picked up on his numerous trips there ufffd everyday. "At least I will stay in touch with the language," he had told me.

Our interaction grew as I moved into covering aviation. While our conversation mainly revolved around happenings around the world, his favourite topics with me were Goa, mobile phones and aviation. The canteen was the place to meet. Very particular about being fit, Dey would open his tiffin-box punctually at 8 pm, at first in the company of the graphic and sports team, and later the Crime Team that he headed.u00a0

When I moved cities to take charge of the Bangalore edition, Dey asked me if I was sure of my decision. He promised to meet when he would come visiting his in-laws, who live in Bangalore. While I have met and spoken to Dey on several occasions during the year that I have been down south, he kept his promise and met me along with wife Shubha and brother-in-law Sharan. "I see you are doing a good job here," he remarked. This is something that I had always wanted to hear from a senior journalist like Dey.

The spirit called J Dey may have died, but not the fire he helped grow in many journalists such as me. I will live up to what he thought I could do, I owe that one to him