For me, it had almost become a ritual. In each of the past three Bihar assembly elections, before setting out for the state, I would make it a point to meet Sankarshan Thakur once. First at the PTI building, later at the INS building in the national capital.

Though he was based in Delhi and worked on national politics, his grasp of Bihar’s politics – and the vast network of contacts he nurtured there – was unmatched. His books testify to that. This year, as Bihar once again stands on the cusp of elections, my ritual meeting will never happen. Sankarshan is gone, at the age of 63.

As a reporter, one always felt the pull of his insights. But for me there was something more personal: Sankarshan had been the first editor I engaged with, the one who interviewed me 18 years ago.

Many people knew him, and for many different reasons. That, perhaps, reflects the expanse of his personality. But if there was one quality for which he was known above all, it was his prose. In journalism’s arid and fact-heavy terrain, his language shimmered with a lyrical elegance that could shame even seasoned writers. He could move through statistics, events, and political detail, and yet effortlessly bring in story, history, and geography. That gift had its own loyal following.

Our last planned meeting, too, was because of his journalism.

A year or so ago, a Hindi collection of his long-form reportage was published under the title Kagad Kalam Kaal. All his life he had written in English, but someone close to him felt that his stories should not remain confined by language, cut off from a wider readership. I had once told him something similar – how much richer it would be if his work were available in Hindi.

One afternoon, he called me, hesitant: “Atul, a book has been published. A close relative translated all my old reports. It’s out now. Would you like to read it?”

“Why even ask?” I replied. “I’ll come and collect it. We’ll talk about it too.”

But Delhi traffic got in the way. We missed each other. I collected the book from his office instead. It was a modest little volume, but I shared it widely among colleagues. To me, it was a guide to the art of writing and reporting. By then he had become editor of The Telegraph, busier than ever. And so, we never met again.

To some, he appeared irritable, brusque, quick to snap. But that was manner, not nature. Those who knew him also knew his sharp sense of humour – that distinct Bihari wit. And yes, he was a chain-smoker. Cigarettes didn’t arrive at his desk in packs but in cartons. In the end, perhaps, they consumed him. He died of lung cancer.

There’s one memory I often share with friends. When I had just joined Tehelka, the office buzzed with excitement about the magazine’s launch. Amid the chatter and smoke, a new column was being planned: The Two Tier, about small-town India. Its format was unusual — reportage in the shape of a column. The first piece was by Sankarshan himself, from Banaras, my hometown. A perfect blend of tight reporting and luminous prose.

The task of translating it into Hindi fell to me. I was poring over the printout when he appeared behind me and, in his rustic Bihari tone, said: “Atul ji, do it properly in Hindi.” Embarrassed, I nodded. But I stumbled on the very first line.

In English, it read: “No matter which direction you enter Banaras from, you will have to head south.” What he meant was that Banaras had fallen so low that whichever way you entered, you eventually descended into a pit.

I couldn’t make sense of the figurative meaning of the phrase. After much struggle, I rendered it tamely: “Though there are many roads into Banaras, you should enter from the south.” He said nothing then, but a week later explained what he had really meant.

That was his writing – dazzling, layered, with meanings that revealed themselves only later. Just like the news of his passing, which still feels unreal.

In his journalism, secularism and the Constitution were not abstractions but living, breathing essences. That will remain his true legacy.

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