A Memoir: 'Yesterday once more: A newsroom refrain'

The newsroom was never quiet. It pulsed with urgency, laughter, and the clatter of keys. At peak hours, it became a symphony of chaos—young voices pitching stories, editors barking deadlines, and the comforting aroma of chai wafting in from the kiosk nearby. That little tea stall, with its samosas, sandwiches, and wafers, was more than a snack stop—it was a sanctuary. Ideas brewed there as fast as the coffee.
Among the many eager faces, one always lit up the room—Nanna. She arrived like a whisper: disheveled curls, nervous eyes, freshly out of gall bladder surgery, and yet, smiling. She didn’t know anyone, and no one knew her. But she carried something stronger than introductions—determination. She waited, watched, and then offered to take on the toughest story. Out of curiosity, I assigned it to her, cautioning her not to delay. She didn’t. She delivered it with perfection and time to spare.
Her first story was a soft musical segment for the news bulletin’s closing. It required sifting through tracks, choosing fragments that lingered—not full songs, but echoes. She nailed it. Her voice was golden, her diction flawless, her modulation instinctive. Whether it was sports, politics, economics, or breaking news, Nanna’s voice became the soul of our stories.
I called those moments “Coffee with Nanna.” Her laughter was loud and contagious, her energy unmatched. She painted T-shirts and sarees with classical motifs—birds, nature, dreams. She practiced yoga, edited videos, wrote scripts, and always came back for more. “Sir, ho jayega,” she’d say, tapes in hand, rushing across the floor. I’d worry she’d trip. She never did.
Vinni was another brilliant spark in our constellation. Senior to Nanna, she was very thin, dark, with luminous eyes and jet-black shining hair. Versatile, intelligent, and full of initiative, she carried herself with quiet confidence and a mischievous smile. I used to tease her, handing her a paperweight and saying, “Keep this in your pocket so the wind doesn’t swipe you away.” It was fun, and she’d laugh, knowing it came from affection.
Vinni had a sharp editorial mind. When Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh was named Person of the Year by an international publication, we needed a caption. Without missing a beat, Vinni said, “Singh is King.” The directors laughed at the daring, but I loved it. We carried it in the top slot of the bulletin. It became a benchmark—bold, witty, and unforgettable.
Our two senior directors—both women—were equally admired. Intelligent, generous, and always approachable, they were the backbone of our editorial spirit. The youngsters looked up to them, and I shared a warm rapport with both. Even now, that bond remains.
I wore cargoes with kurtas, jeans with twelve pockets—sometimes eighteen if you counted my jacket. The youngsters teased me: “How many pockets today?” I’d grin and add a few more. They wore formals, but I stayed rough and ready. On the day of the award ceremony in Hyderabad, I wore a three-piece suit with a red tie. It was only the second time I’d dressed that way. The clapping didn’t stop when my name was called. The award was for Best Editor. But when I returned, it was their hugs, their tears, their joy that made it real. They had won it with me.
Cliff Richard’s songs were the quiet companions to our chaos. On days when stories felt heavy and deadlines loomed, someone would hum “Summer Holiday,” and suddenly the air felt lighter, as if we too were escaping to sunlit shores. “Bachelor Boy” echoed the youthful spirit of our interns, full of dreams and mischief. “Congratulations” wasn’t just for awards—it played in our minds every time a tough story made it to air. And then there was “The Young Ones,” a track that felt like it was written for our team—fresh-faced, fearless, and full of fire. His voice was the emotional bookmark of our newsroom, reminding us that even in the rush of breaking news, there was room for rhythm, romance, and a little rock ’n’ roll.
Nanna called me “Pa.” Others saw me as a mentor, but she gave it a name. I felt proud—deeply, quietly proud. Today, she’s a mother of two, with a gentle husband and the same radiant smile. When we meet, she’s still the little Nanna to me. Her voice still graces stories, her scripts wiser, her energy undimmed.
Sometimes, I feel guilty. I could only admire them, bless them, defend them. I couldn’t give them the raises, the certificates, the recognition they deserved. But I stood by them. No outsider ever scolded my newsroom. That was my promise. And it worked.
Now, when I sit alone, sipping tea, I hear the Carpenters sing “Yesterday Once More” and Doris Day whisper “Que Sera, Sera.” I smile. My best memories come back to me. The newsroom, the laughter, the stories, the samosas—Vinni with her paperweight, Nanna rushing with tapes, the directors nodding with pride—and the caption that still makes me chuckle: Singh is King.
It always was.

(K G sharma Freelance journalist Retired from Indian Information Services. Former senior editor with DD News, AIR News, and PIB. Consultant with UNICEF Nigeria. Contributor to national and international media.-View are personal.)
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