We could be in the midst of a crowded rally, running behind a politician, when his phone would ring. His voice would drop to a gentle softness that seemed impossible in the chaos around us, and I would know it was his wife, Sangeeta on the call. His son, Shrey, learned this tenderness from him. On reporting trips, Shrey would call repeatedly to make sure Pawan, a diabetic, had eaten on time. But it was as a grandfather that Pawan found his greatest joy. On Monday, he was supposed to host a grand first birthday celebration for his grandson, Yug.
I had known Pawan for my entire journalistic career. He was the kind of colleague who was always ready—with an idea, a word of encouragement, a nudge when I stood at a crossroads.
Together we travelled widely. We found stories, despaired when appointments fell through, and laughed even louder when we filed just before the deadline. He would sit patiently through my long interviews, then suggest that one last person we needed, that one remaining source we must tap. He wanted to understand a story from my perspective. His principle was simple: a reporter must always lead. The vanity that could have come from international publications or decades of experience? Not for him.
He was a hungry photographer. Good enough was never enough. He was merciless about discarding his own work if it didn’t capture "life". If there was even the slightest chance of getting a better photo, he would go for it—no matter the time, no matter how long it took. He was curious, always asking about the human element in my story. Then he would make gentle suggestions about how we could make something good even better.
His generosity extended beyond colleagues. He offered help freely to anyone willing to listen. It was his suggestion that led a political party’s media cell to start using e-mail when the internet was still in its infancy. To another, he recommended fisheye lenses for better images.
Every journalist who worked with him, I imagine, found him to be a delight. Reporters from around the world sought him out when they came to this part of the world for reporting.
When he wanted, Pawan could be a real charmer. He was often better than I was at convincing reluctant subjects to speak. When I would despair—that minister not taking my call, that politician refusing an interview—he would work some invisible magic. Yet no matter how deep his connections ran, his boundaries remained clear. Work was work. A good story was all that mattered. His contacts and connections were tools for journalism. He sought no favours and expected no bounties.
Pawan and I were known in the journalistic fraternity and among political parties for working together. So many have reached out with condolences. They remember him as a fine gentleman, a noble soul, unfailingly polite and courteous.
He was a man who ensured I was always comfortable. Often, I only had to look at him for him to understand I was uneasy with a situation or a person. Gently, he would shield me. Together we found not just stories but foods to try, places to eat, and silhouettes to capture.
We shared another passion-- Hindustani classical music, which we studied. Sometimes, on drives, we would belt out a taan or a song. He was, of course, the far better singer.
I never imagined I would write of Pawan in the past tense. This 30th, he would have turned 60. He wanted a grand celebration.
Instead, today, family and friends bade him farewell as he left for his final journey. He was dressed in the clothes meant for Yug’s birthday party.
Farewell, Pawan ji, as I always called him. You were my longest storytelling partner. Beyond work, you included me in the circle of your family.
Thank you for all your warmth, generosity, sensitivity, simplicity, and patience—you left me, and many others, much better for having known you.
You will be missed. My reporting trips will never be the same. And my stories will just be a tad incomplete without you.