Nihal Singh, the pied piper of classical journalism
My heart was already heavy, having dealt with the obits of two former colleagues in a matter of days. And when we were just about to wind up the 40th anniversary celebrations of Khaleej Times on Monday, the news of two more departures hit me like Arctic winds. Former colleague Rukhia Begum and my editor twice over, S. Nihal Singh, who would have turned 89 later this month, passed away when we were paying tributes to all those who had contributed to making KT a success story.
The year 1984 was crucial in my life as I was on the point of leaving Indian Express to co-own and launch a county newspaper from Mumbai’s fledgling satellite city, New Bombay. I was just 26, the age when passion runs deep in your veins. Within a year, mismanagement and non-receipt of ad revenues started to bleed our tabloid. I was strategising to wriggle out of the chaos when Mr Singh — as I always called him — announced plans to launch The Indian Post under the JK brand. I let serendipity play its part.
PNV Nair, my former news editor at Indian Express, had already teamed up with Mr Singh. PNV was Mumbai’s best known tabloid specialist, and his racy headlines were the selling point for papers he had worked for, including RK Karanjia’s The Daily. PNV was a terror in the newsroom, while Mr Singh was an angel. PNV dehumanised journos for errors, while Mr Singh inspired them with his quintessential class and matching brilliance. PNV sensationalised to sell, while Mr Singh rationalised to sustain. PNV was ready to say heck with grammar for the sake of a good rhyme, while Mr Singh was the grammar police. PNV was a local hero, while Mr Singh was a national hero who fought the 1975 Emergency. PNV believed in design, while Mr Singh was for content. To put food on the table was more important for me than trying to figure out how an impulsive, tabloid guy like PNV could gel with a world-acclaimed veteran like Mr Singh. So I gathered up the guts and walked into the Post at JK Building in Ballard Estate to meet the duo.
That was the first time I met a ‘suited-booted’ Indian editor with European features. His demeanour was courteous, quiet and dignified. Mr Singh sat in his cabin, his scalp taking the full glow of the light. In the showcase behind him was an assortment of pipes he had collected. He tapped one of them on the edge of the ashtray, took a pinch of tobacco, trickled it into the chamber and lit it — his stare focused on me all the while. There was a flicker of excitement in his hazel eyes as he talked about how “we are going to be the first fully computerised newspaper in India”. I choked on the word computer because I had not seen one until then.
“Not to worry, people will come from the US or Singapore to train you. We will have a six-month window,” he said. The interview was over and I walked off with an appointment letter safe in my pocket. What surprised me more than the job was the trust the duo had in each other. Mr Singh had PNV under his spell, and the strange bedfellows maintained the bond till their last day in the Post.
I learned journalism in Free Press Journal and refined it in Indian Express. I unlearned those skills and practised a feisty brand under Vinod Mehta. But it’s under Mr Singh that I got to follow classical journalism. Stories were looked at from a different perspective. Out went sensationalism; objectivity ruled. Out was linear thinking; in was lateral thinking. Out was Americanism; in was Queen’s English. Punctuation mattered. Slang was shown the door. “Suresh, watch out for deskies who slip in Babu English,” he warned me occasionally. Every morning we waited for his postmortems, done with a red felt pen — and without malice. No one was hurt. He encouraged, never targeted. Under him everyday was a rich learning experience. The newsroom was like a temple of knowledge and Mr Singh the sentinel of its sanctum sanctorum.
He drew a red line between the editorial and the management and never let anyone cross it. He never went to the owners; they came down to meet him. He refused to wear the hat of a marketing salesman. He showed the world the editor’s job was to run the newspaper with least interference. When the Indian government conducted raids on top industries, including the Singhanias who were the owners of the Post, PNV reportedly called up Mr Singh to check if it would be OK to carry the news mentioning the Singhanias. “You are the news editor, you decide,” he supposedly replied. And we published the report, with our own company mentioned!
I am not sure if that contributed to the humiliation meted out to the stalwarts.There are two versions about their departure. One theory is Mr Singh was reportedly stopped by the lift man from going to his office. He was asked to proceed to the accounts where his final cheque was ready to be collected. He took a taxi home. A few days later, it was PNV’s turn. Others say Mr Singh resigned after he was asked to start an astrology column. They never explained to us.I was already a Khaleej Times veteran when Mr Singh took over in 1994. In Dubai he continued his great Indian tradition of the nine-to-five routine with a post-dinner call to check on front page stories. I had a bad habit of not telling him my offbeat anchor candidate and Mr Singh enjoyed the mischief. “I am not asking to show your trump card,” he would say.
Back in the ’90s, KT was like a big family. We would make occasion to get together to drink, sing and dance. Mr Singh and I put in our papers in the same month in 2000. For the farewell lunch he was the first to turn up at my place, and for the next few hours, the 70-year-old never-say-die journalist was the master of ceremonies. He danced and crooned a Russian couplet. I belted out a Malayalam number. In between, he pulled me aside a couple of times and asked, “Why are you leaving for Singapore?”
“I am stuck in the middle of the ladder. The top rung is crowded. Need to expand my horizon,” I confided.
“I have lived in Singapore for years. Journalism on the island isn’t much different from what is practised here. The horizon you dream of isn’t as broad or beautiful as you think,” he warned me, wishing me all the best anyway.
Like me, Mr Singh wanted to become a doctor, but ended with ink on his hands. In our Mumbai days, I was influenced by some of his idiosyncrasies. One of them was the pipe. After months of practice outside, when I finally strolled into the office with a pipe held between my lips, the office was already abuzz with the breaking news — Mr Singh had quit smoking. I would still call him by the nickname I had given him privately in the early days of our camaraderie: The Pied Piper of Classical Journalism. Those who had the luck to work with him followed his principles in letter and spirit. The charming Sardarji taught me to have fun with the profession. I’m lovin’ it.