Bhaskar liked editors. He understood our work

That’s Bhaskar Das, the Times of India legend, who passed away at 72 on Wednesday of cancer, and me spectacularly dressed for the last ‘Bombay Times’ party we hosted together. The theme was Halloween. The party was meant for Bollywood—and Mumbai’s swish set of society A-listers. Guests were asked to come in scary costumes. Wisely, nobody did. This was the party of the year. People came to be seen. But if they were spookily dressed as, say, Dracula or Ghostface, how would anybody recognise them in the pages of pictures ‘BT’ carried the next day? But Bhaskar and I had to stick to the dress code. He came made up as the Devil. Grinning evilly. I went as Zorro. Bollywood cracked upon seeing us. One actor snickered in my ear, “We get paid to entertain people, what’s your excuse?”

The thing is, Bhaskar needed no excuse to dress up and show up. He was the President of Response at the Times. An advertising and sales guru in the media. Used to being in the field and making money hand over fist for the company by dazzling captains of industry and marketing pundits with the sheer magnificence of his presence. That he was a genius at selling the Times brand I quickly realised in the years I worked with him. True, he was handsomely trained for the responsibility. But rather than his distinguished qualifications, it was the dynamism of his personality, his sparkling wit, and the breathtaking effect of his sartorial elegance over his creative brilliance that impressed people. The only time I saw him at a disadvantage and not dramatically attired was at his funeral. I felt terrible.

Our jobs converged. Bhaskar liked editors. He understood our work. I felt he would have made an outstanding executive editor. Even though he was President of the Times, he thought nothing of walking up to my cabin to see how I made a front page and put an edition together. Often, he would subtly offer a suggestion that made great sense. And whenever I was stuck because of the idiosyncratic working culture of our organisation, I would walk down to his eclectically furnished office to seek his guidance. As I took the stairs, I would wonder what Bhaskar was wearing. His fashion sense was as snappy as it was bizarre. He never failed to surprise me. And he was as energetic as the funky colours he wore. Swag in his style. Chutzpah in his attitude. In minutes, with magic on a black board, he would dismiss my problem.

Bhaskar came to me for help with Bollywood. He liked the glamour and glitz of showbiz. We produced several special editions for which I invited every big actor from Amitabh Bachchan to Salman Khan and Priyanka Chopra to Kareena Kapoor to be my guest editor. Bhaskar ingeniously and attractively packaged these editions and sold them. He loved interacting with the stars. And they with him. Once I bumped into him at the Taj. He was there to address The Advertising Club of India. Voguishly dressed in orange pants, mustard shirt, red shoes, blue tie, pink spectacles and with a white hairband holding back his thick lion’s mane of hair that he had dyed greenish gold. I was interviewing Sachin Tendulkar. The master batsman looked like he had been struck by a bouncer when I took Bhaskar to meet him!

Bhaskar’s greatness lay in his easy affability and lazy charm. He also had a wicked innocence. Once, on the morning of the event, he asked me to get him a big actor for the ET Golf Tournament that afternoon. Nobody would come at such short notice. “Then you come!” Bhaskar cunningly said. I had to twist Katrina Kaif’s arm to get her to do it. She was mad. But Bhaskar won her over by chauffeuring her around in a golf cart. John Abraham was once my Santa at Christmas. He came in a body-hugging red tee and snug jeans. The girls in the Times building went crazy. John graciously posed for pictures with hundreds of them in the lobby by our gigantic Christmas tree. Suddenly the elevator door opened. And Bhaskar stepped out in a red Santa cap. The girls went “Oooh-aaah!” John enviously whispered to me, “Mr. Das is the real star here!” That he was. RIP, Sir.