"Brilliant, brilliant!" he exclaimed. And then walked away. "Who was he?" I wondered.

 

They were in love.
They expressed it to themselves.
They wanted to proclaim this to the world.
It's their life. It's their love. It's their decision.
During a visit to the Charminar, I saw their proclamation. They inscribed their names on the monument. Not just this couple, but many more. Not just at one place, but at every place on the monument they possibly could.
Indeed, it was their life.
Their love.
They had all the freedom to express it. At least, not at the cost of vandalising a more than four centuries old monument. It was vandalism, no doubt. The all too glaring inscriptions spoiled the very look of the monument, defacing it.
In the early 1990s, when I was working for Deccan Chronicle, this was our system. We would type out our news reports. The original would be handed over to the desk. A carbon copy would be kept in the reporting bureau. Another copy would be sent to the sister publication Andhra Bhoomi. The office boy would generally be asked to go to that place, on the same floor, and place it on their tray. This was just a way of informing Andhra Bhoomi that these reports were filed by Deccan Chronicle reporters. It was left to the discretion of the Andhra Bhoomi staff to choose to use any of the reports in the Telugu publication if anything interested them. They would translate them into Telugu and publish them.
It happened just the same way with my report on the defacing of the Charminar by visitors, who violated rules of the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), and scribbled whatever they wished to. There would be a few guards to see that this vandalism did not take place. But at how many places could these guards simultaneously be? Their primary task really was the safety of the visitors — to keep a watch and ensure that there were no mishaps involving them. They were there for the safety of the visitors.
Like we did with all reports, I sent a copy of the Charminar story to Andhra Bhoomi also. The Charminar was constructed in 1591 and, on the occasion of its 400th anniversary, I went to take a re-look at it.
This was in 1991.
As I sat in the reporting bureau, a tall and lean man, with a serious look on his face, walked up to me.
"Brilliant, brilliant!" he exclaimed. And then walked away.
"Who was he?" I wondered.
"And what was he talking about?"
I was curious about who he was. I looked in the direction he was headed, on the same floor.
After a couple of hours, I went in the same direction, perhaps looking to find him. And find him I did! He was in the Andhra Bhoomi section. I enquired with my colleagues, giving his description and mentioning that he was in Andhra Bhoomi, and asked who he was.
"He is K. N. Y. Patanjali, the Editor of Andhra Bhoomi," they said. I felt a bit awkward that the Editor of Andhra Bhoomi himself had walked up to me and complimented me on my story, and I did not know who he was because I was a relative newcomer and hardly interacted with the Andhra Bhoomi staff then.
The next day's edition of Andhra Bhoomi prominently carried my story.
I took the liberty of walking to where Patanjali garu sat in the office and he welcomed me. "I was simply floored by the story you wrote. These are the stories that matter," Patanjali garu said. We spoke for 15 minutes or so.
His appreciation has stayed with me forever.
His words continue to inspire.
K. N. Y. Patanjali was a journalist of repute, an editor in various newspapers, and most of all a very well-respected writer and author. He passed away in May 2009 at the age of 56. His memory lives on.

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