in-memoriam-shailender-dhawan

This morning, when Gurban Singh—Gunjeet's brother and Shailen's brother-in-law—called to say that Shailender Dhawan had passed away, it felt like the ground had vanished beneath my feet.

 

Just two days earlier, he had returned home from the hospital, his voice stronger on the phone, already teasing me about a typo in News Arena India. "Brilliant layout, yaar, but you need to fix that grammar!" 

 

That was Shailen—ill, yet still the editor. We first met around 1981 at a declamation contest at Government College, Ludhiana.

 

An unobtrusive figure in jeans and a long-collared shirt walked in, spoke without notes about women refusing contraception and the resulting population explosion, and left the room in stunned silence. People were shocked as such things were not spoken about openly. Nobody even caught his name. 

 

The entire audience spent a day trying to figure out: Who was that guy? Only later did we discover that "Shailen"—as he was known—was Shailender Dhawan, who had just moved to Ludhiana, where his father, Sardar Gyan Inder Singh Dhawan, had been posted as Additional District & Sessions Judge.

 

From that afternoon onward, Shailen attracted peers like a magnet. His childhood in Amritsar, Delhi, and other cities had given him connections everywhere and a natural charisma that made him instantly popular.

 

He lived barely 700 meters from my house, and our friendship bloomed quickly. Shailen could recite P.G. Wodehouse from the back of his hand, turning incidents from those books into witty commentary on real-life situations.

 

He was fun, sharp, and endlessly curious. Even before he enrolled in his master's in English Literature, Shailen was certain about his calling: journalism. He wanted to follow in the footsteps of his uncle, the legendary journalist Satindera Singh, who moved in Khushwant Singh's circle of Punjabi writers in Delhi.

 

For a BA student to have such clarity about his future was something we all admired. When Shailen's father was posted to Patiala, he roped me into reviving a defunct tabloid called Marker, which was on the verge of losing its print license due to non-publication. The owner, an octogenarian, simply wanted to keep the license alive.

 

Working from two different cities, we wrote and rewrote articles through letters, created weekly sun-sign forecasts and monthly horoscopes. It was a short but intense experience that introduced me to the world of journalism—a vocation that would become bread and butter for both of us.

 

Shortly thereafter, Shailen was invited to join the Times Research Foundation, Bennett Coleman's prestigious training program for journalists, then out of Mumbai. He excelled, as expected, and was offered a position at The Economic Times in Mumbai. 

 

There, he rubbed shoulders with veterans like Girilal Jain, turning senior editors into friendly acquaintances with his witty and pithy one-liners. I was in the United States when I learned that Shailen had decided to restore his turban and marry our mutual friend, Gunjeet Kaur, around 1987.

 

Both remained in Mumbai—Shailen giving his best to the fourth estate while Gunjeet rose up to be Director in the Department of Economic Analysis and Policy within the Reserve Bank of India (RBI), finally retiring last year. 

 

During Gunjeet’s posting at the Reserve Bank of India in Delhi, Shailen moved with her and became News Editor at The Pioneer, where I had also worked. For the first time, we worked together formally, with him as my boss. He was tough—as-tough as any boss can be—but after office hours, he was the dear friend who would joke, mock, and correct my work in the most positive and reinforcing manner.

 

We had some strained times when, instead of supporting me as a friend, he preferred to take unbiased and balanced views on contentious situations. His first love was always writing and fairness in the media. 

 

When The Pioneer shut down in the late nineties, he moved as News Editor to The Tribune, where we again crossed professional paths—though this time I wasn't directly reporting to him, as he handled the Delhi edition while I worked in Chandigarh.

 

With Gunjeet's heart always in Mumbai, they moved back when she was posted there. Shailen took over at The Free Press Journal, where he remained at the helm as Editor-in-Chief until last year—nearly two decades of steering the paper with quiet authority, brilliant headlines (like "Sambar Over Chowmein" celebrating chess prodigy Gukesh's triumph), and an editor's eye that never missed a misplaced comma.

 

From his Nariman Point cabin, he presided over deadlines with wit, wisdom, and a pot of Chayos ginger tea for visitors. Journalism was so ingrained in his blood that when one of his sons decided to become a cricket journalist—a niche area with few jobs but plenty of writing—Shailen never resisted.

 

He loved it. Apart from writing and reading, Shailen's other great love was public speaking. During school and college days, the moment participants saw him arrive at a debate venue, many would leave without competing, assuming the award would go to him anyway.

 

He was highly adventurous. Once, during an NSS camp in Kasauli, I visited him and he broke camp rules to sneak out with me—only to be expelled subsequently. During one of our frequent trips to Shimla, when his maternal uncle was away, we "borrowed" his residence for a getaway.

 

It was so cold that we attempted our first alcoholic drink by opening his uncle's Old Monk rum bottle, only to spit it out immediately in unison.

 

There were occasions when we'd take his blue-green Bajaj scooter and ride off to places like Malerkotla to see a common friend, only to discover there was no fuel to return home. Shailen moved to Chandigarh in April this year, hoping to lead a more relaxed life due to health issues. 

 

Unfortunately, we could not meet after his move—one reason or another always interfered—but we would often talk on the phone and promise to meet soon. Even during his illness, he would fondly read my new venture, News Arena India, every day and comment on its brilliant layout while pointing out journalistic or grammatical errors in his lighthearted way.

 

This morning, that voice fell silent. Shailender Dhawan is survived by his wife Gunjeet Kaur and their two sons, and countless colleagues, friends, and readers whose lives he touched with his words, his laughter, and his relentless red pen.

 

The judge's son, who silenced a room in 1981, who turned defunct tabloids into classrooms, newsrooms into families, and headlines into national conversations, has filed his last story.

 

Somewhere, I imagine, Khushwant Singh is pouring him a drink, and Shailen—eyes closed even in heaven, forever camera-shy—is already correcting the measure. Goodbye, yaar. Save me a ringside seat when the next debate begins.

 

A tribute from a friend who walked alongside him from Ludhiana to Patiala, from Marker to The Free Press Journal, from mischief to mastery.
Naveen S Garewal Editor-in-Chief, News Arena India