Everest: Perfect For Summit Meetings

Not One But Two Mountaineering Stories For You


Did I ever tell you about the time I was sixteen years old and in the company of the most famous Everest mountaineers in the world? No kidding, mate. You name them, they were the climbers beside me. Shoulder to shoulder.

The weather was great. Crisp blue sky. It was mid-morning. We would have been at about 25,000 feet. Maybe even a tad higher. No goggles. We weren't roped together. We weren't even using oxygen.

Now fast forward to 1986, when Tenzing Norgay died. There was only one publication anywhere in the world that flew a photographer and feature writer to cover the funeral of one of the most famous men of the twentieth century, the humble sherpa who accompanied Sir Edmund Hillary to the summit of Everest.

That publication was a weekly magazine, produced in Calcutta, called `Sportsworld’.

The photographer was Nikhil Bhattacharya, electronic gizmo-loving, chain-smoking veteran not just of many significant sporting contests around the world, but a man who had covered the Bangladesh war as well.

The rookie feature writer – now better known as a nominated MLA (Member of the Legislative Assembly) than his ability as a wordsmith – was a bloke called Barry O’Brien, a gifted stage actor who as a schoolboy narrowly missed out on the title role in the film `Kim’.

The journalist who assigned Bhattacharya and O’Brien to the task was a young fella too, not even born when Sir Edmund Hillary and the sherpa made history, climbing Mount Everest in 1953.

But he was worried. In a rapid series of early-morning phone calls, assigning both colleagues to the tiny Himalayan town of Darjeeling, he had serious misgivings. Not about the story, for he knew the pictures and the story would be of the highest quality. No, he had misgivings for other reasons.

A proud alumnus of St Joseph’s College in Darjeeling, he knew and loved the mountain town like a second home. But at the time – 1986 – the place most people simply called ``Darj’’ was engulfed in the turmoil that surrounded the separatist Gorkhaland quest. Was he justified in sending two colleagues into a place racked with political turmoil, where he could not guarantee their safety? He discussed the issue with both of them. They were both adamant that they would not be at risk.

So he went with his instincts and ordered them to go ahead. It was just too good a news story to miss.

There was no email back then. No mobile phones. Landlines were unreliable. But the rookie reporter and the veteran photographer arrived in Darjeeling, covered the funeral and returned safely to Kolkata. Their coverage was both exceptional and exclusive.

More than 20 years later, maybe someone should dig out that feature article and that box of Kodak transparencies and make the treasure trove available globally, on the Net.

And just in case you're wondering; yes, I was the editor who assigned Nikhil Bhattacharya and Barry O'Brien to cover the funeral of Tenzing Norgay. I was 29 years old at the time.

And yes, I really was at 25,000 feet with the most famous Everest climbers of all time. But we weren't on Everest. We were on an Indian Airlines flight from Calcutta to Bagdogra. I was on my way to Darjeeling for a ten-day holiday; the mountaineers were on their way to the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute in Darjeeling, to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the conquering of Everest, the world's highest peak.

We weren't using goggles. We weren't roped together. And we weren't even using oxygen. It's the only time in my life I can truthfully say the hard men of Everest were passengers in every sense of the word.

Written for Mrs Nesbitt's ABC Wednesday.

Edition And Subtraction

It’s The Quip And The Dead As A Paper Launches


There’s a funny thing about newspapers. Despite the intense pressure under which they are produced, they also spawn rapier-like wit. This month, a landmark anniversary reminded me of an off-the-cuff remark that made me splutter with mirth. The Telegraph, produced by the Ananda Bazar Patrika group in Calcutta, was launched 25 years ago, on 7 July 1982.

Apart from being much better designed than other competing papers at the time, the new paper had the memorable ad slogan `Unputdownable’. It was advertising genius Stanley Pinto (who also created the famous Luxol Silk campaign) who came up with that slogan and when I recently exchanged emails with him, he confirmed that it had survived the test of time and was still the paper’s tagline.

Back then, when the paper was launched, I was in my early twenties and was employed as the chief sub-editor of its sister publication, the weekly magazine `Sportsworld’. Like other young journalists in that very creative building, I volunteered to help launch the new paper in addition to my normal duties.

The paper’s founding editor, M.J. Akbar, was the man who hired me as a journalist and it was my way of repaying his faith in me. I should point out here that Akbar (right) never made any attempt to conceal his frequent ire, but he also had a wicked sense of humour. In my early days as a trainee sub-editor a colleague and I were struggling to write a headline for a feature story about the rise of sexually transmitted diseases. We took him a sheet of paper, with several of our headlines written on it. He tore up the paper and echoed Julius Caesar as he wrote his own headline: ``Veni, VD, vici’’.

The night `The Telegraph’ was launched, however, there was more chance of a seizure than a Caesar. Things were a little bit tense as the deadline approached. Akbar wore a constant frown and that was not a good sign for skittish rookies.

Two very experienced colleagues of mine – Tirthankar Ghosh and Saumitra Banerjee, then on the staff of `Sunday’ magazine – were also helping that night. Akbar used the three of us as trouble-shooters for his maiden edition, which was understandable, as we knew the intricacies of the system and the nitty-gritty of the overall production process.

At one stage, with that trademark look of exasperation on his face, Akbar turned to me and asked me to take over the front page. As I did so, he called one of the others over, to speed up a photograph of then Karnataka Chief Minister Bangarappa. ``Just hurry up and get the picture of Banga-bloody-rappa,’’ he yelled.

Okay, so it wasn’t ``bloody’’. It began with ``F’’, ended with ``G’’ and rhymed with ``trucking’’.