Goodbye, Sir

“Veteran,” “old school,” and “eminent” are the most common adjectives used to describe Mahbubul Alam, former editor of the Independent, who died on Friday. But to me, he was just Sir.

I first met Sir almost four years ago, while I was being interviewed as a sub-editor for the Independent. The interview lasted for an entire five minutes.

“Ok, you have the job.”

“That’s great, Sir. When should I start?

“Now.”

“Now? As in right now?”

“Now.”

And with that, in a puff of paper clippings, stationary, and visiting cards, he was out of the room, and I had a new job.

For almost my entire first year, Sir was omnipresent in the newsroom. Our exchanges were always brief, translated through staccatos, imperatives, and orders: Why is the headline more than five words, where is the caption to the stand-alone, when is the first edition going to press, how are we giving value to our advertisers.

Sir was the proverbial skipper to the newsroom – always directing, instructing, and leading. He was never a behind-the-scenes kind of man – he had to be in charge. His decisions were never questioned, his judgments were always decree: You did what Sir told you to do, end of story. I was a cog in a machine, a well-oiled machine mind you, but still just a cog. But it never felt impersonal, because he made us realise the whole was always more important than the part.

In my second year, I was called in to his office for the very first time. People usually were promoted or fired in his room, and I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to me.

“You know Shantonu (my supervisor) is leaving, right? You’re going to have to start editing the pages yourself. You are promoted.”

“Thank you Sir, but are you sure I … ”

“Leave. You are already late for the first edition as it is.”

And again, without any pleasantries, banter, or even a whiff of levity, I had a new position, but couldn’t even thank my boss for giving it to me. Work precedes gratitude or token attempts at getting personal. That was always Sir’s philosophy.

And it just wasn’t with me. Throughout my entire career at the Independent, Sir was always formal, always focused on work, always had his eye on the prize. Senior journalists, interns, and office support staff were invariably met with the same degree of professionalism, civility, and subdued congeniality. Sir practised equality the old-fashioned way: We are all here to make one fantastic daily newspaper, and to that end, we are all the same.

Sir retired last year, something which seemed unthinkable even a couple of years ago, but I think deep down he realised he needed to pass on the baton. Colleagues and well-wishers threw him a farewell, but as usual, Sir eschewed fanfare, and even while we were busy cutting slices of cake and taking group pictures, the conversation still steered towards work, meeting deadlines, and making sure the interns were learning from the seniors.

When he left, Sir came over and shook my hand.

“Make sure page 3 has mostly Dhaka stories. And your headlines still aren’t brief enough. And yesterday’s national pages were really poor. You better shape up young man.”

I wasn’t sure whether he was joking, but I smiled. And, for once, he smiled back.

I never got to know Mahbubul Alam as the family man, or the cricket lover, or even the avid Tagore lover. But to me, to all of us who had worked with him, he was our Sir. Goodbye Sir, you will forever remain in our hearts.