Adieu, Sankarshan Thakur: A rare shoe-leather journalist, newsroom’s voice of sanity

Sankarshan Thakur once called me and asked, “What happened, Teresa? You vanished, huh?” And we both laughed. At times, I was out of network coverage area while I was in the back of beyond, chasing stories. I was in the hinterland of the country, with my pen, notebook and a vintage mobile phone – often straying into unexplored terrains, pursuing militant leaders, looking for tales beyond the violent strife that ravaged the region for decades. 

As the Principal Correspondent covering the Northeast for Tehelka, I reported to Sankarshan, the then Executive Editor of the news magazine. Based in the country’s capital, he was like the quiet anchor and a mentor who inspired fledgling reporters like me to thresh out some of the finest narratives in Indian journalism from the under-reported and peripheral regions of the country. 

Under his editorial leadership, Tehelka thrived as a magazine and we came up with brilliant stories from all over India. In our annual editorial offline meetings, he would sit with outstation reporters and talk about the varied nuances of journalism and the importance of telling stories. He gave us important tips to be crisp and terse. He would say, “Please don’t send me one big Ganga. Please stick to the main nuances of the story and don’t meander here and there.”

With his two books, The Brothers Bihari and Single Man: The Life & Times of Nitish Kumar of Bihar, he had etched his name as the chronicler of Bihar. However, he had an understanding of the pulse of the rest of the country as well – its polity, society and life in general. His knowledge of India defied critical and chronological categories. 

He was always ready to listen and could smell a good story. While the whole so-called national media abandoned northeast India except when there was a bomb blast or violence that shook the political echelons, here was this man who gave a patient hearing to the region. He understood the constraints journalists like us worked in. Northeast India is not a monolith and reporting from this region is a humongous task. 

He never made me feel that just because I was a woman, I could not possibly do some stories well. In fact, I was encouraged to do hardcore conflict reporting, a rare feat for a female journalist from the region. And I did manage to do some exclusive and rare groundbreaking stories from the region. While I was on a story, he would call once in a while to find out if I was doing fine. His concern was genuine, real and warm. It was never overpowering or intruding. 

For the initial few months, Sankarshan was just a voice over telephone. He would call before the regular editorial meetings and we would put our heads together about potential story ideas. Initially, as a young journalist, I was flustered to get a phone call from the top boss but he had always put me at ease. He was very informal, and invariably made the conversation effortless and easy. In his characteristic soft voice, he would begin with, “How are you, Teresa? How is your daughter? Hope she is doing well?”

Years later, I wrote Bulletproof, an autobiographical book where I recount how I uncovered the stories around conflict. And I named the book Bulletproof as I felt that like most journalists of the region, we were bulletproof – physically, mentally and metaphorically. Reporting from a conflict zone had a fear factor that was real and Sankarshan was conscious of that. He would stay in touch whenever I was on a difficult mission. Once, when I had gone to interview Th Muivah, the chief of NSCN-IM, I was caught in a crossfire. As I crouched in the bushes nearby, I called him and said, “There is firing going on.” He fumbled and said, “Please take care”.

But it was for fine editors like him that shoe-leather journalists like us could put in our best, strive to tell the stories of men, women and children around us. 

I had once stumbled upon a diary of a top-ranking ULFA leader who had jotted down an intimate account of his experience when they were flushed out of Bhutan during Operation All Clear, a joint operation by the Royal Bhutan Army and the Indian Army. It was a rare occasion when Sankarshan decided that a story from the northeast would be a cover story for the magazine. The story titled, ‘Diary of an ULFA hitman’ was a big hit.

Years later in 2012, I started my own media venture, Thumbprint Northeast, an online magazine to give space to stories from the region. I had invited Sankarshan for its launch at the Indian Women Press Corps in New Delhi. He readily agreed to come and sat through the event. When I had asked him to sign in the inaugural scroll, he refused to sign it with a regular ballpoint pen. Instead, he took out his fountain pen from his shirt pocket and signed his name with a flourish. Moments like these make you realise the depth of a person’s commitment.

He always wore his collars up. That was his signature style. Eloquent, wise and humble, he was a rare breed of shoe-leather journalist without any fluff or air around him. He was insightful and trusted his reporters. He was a voice of sanity in a noisy newsroom, was rooted and was faithful to his calling. His presence made Indian journalism richer, and he left an emboss on young journalists like me. 

Editors like him inspired us not to give up – to persist in reporting and recording contemporary northeast India and look beyond the linear narratives. I owe much to him for making me tell stories that nobody probably thought were worth telling. Sankarshan was one of the finest. He was a legend. And most importantly, he was a gentleman. 

Rest in peace, Gentleman Editor.

Teresa Rehman is an award-winning journalist and author. She is the editor-in-chief of Thumbprint Northeast.