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.
