How do you write about a person who taught you how to write? This question has been haunting me since January 30 – the day I lost my amazing boss and mentor, Zainul Abedin. It’s been more than a month and I still struggle to bring myself to write anything on him. A lot has already been written about him and there is only a little that I can add to tell the world why his absence is such a huge loss to the entire journalist community – especially young journalists.
I met Zain in 2016. During my interview, we ended up talking about movies. I told him that my most-favourite movie is ‘Stand and Deliver’ – which is based on the story of a high school teacher. “The reason I love the film,” I told him, “is that this movie was based on a mathematics teacher and explored the bond he shared with his students. Such bonds are so rare.” I shyly added.
Little did I know that after all these years, I would be lucky enough to share the bond with my boss who became the best teacher I'd had. When I joined the desk as a sub-editor, I was quite immature and needed to be guided. And Zain willingly became the guide (frankly, I never had to ask for it). “An article by Arundhati Roy”, his email once landed in my mailbox. It carried the link to her article ‘The End of Imagination’. Over the years, he kept recommending articles he thought everyone on the desk should read.
“A writer should also be a thinker”, one of his many messages to the desk said. And to help us ‘think’, he would send links to articles or simply recommend a book or a movie. What made him indispensable to journalism here was his unquenchable desire to train ‘the interested’. “For the interested”, he would write in his emails which carried the list of movies and books he thought the people working on his desk should watch and read. And the best thing about him was that his doors and mailbox and WhatsApp were always open for all interested individuals who didn’t necessarily have to be his subordinates. All they had to do was knock.
Zain taught me how to read a newspaper. He explained to me why a page’s layout is important and how the paper talks to readers through these technical details. These were the lessons that are not taught in any formal university. And these were the lessons that helped me make better editorial judgments.
He also made sure that the people working on his desk weren’t stuck in the 9-5 boring loop with no growth. To make the job interesting for us, he would have small discussions in his office. The rule was simple: the short class would start once the work was done. You’d have to go inside his office and ask anything you wanted. To reply to your question, he’d politely ask you to sit. In case he settled in his chair and placed his pack of cigarettes parallel to the ashtray, you’d know that you were going to be at the office for a little longer for a stimulating conversation.
After having worked in the industry for more than a decade and having trained so many people, Zain knew when a person was being challenged for his/her preconceived notions. He’d smile and ask ‘to think’ and ‘to question’. “That’s your homework,” he would say, happily taking the liberty to be our teacher. My friends had occasionally said that I always sought Zain’s validation. And I accept that I did – because seeking his validation meant reading books, going through well-written articles, and being in continuous search of the right voice. Seeking his validation meant religiously reading editorials and understanding when to say and how to say and what topics to talk about.
He also helped everyone on the desk take ownership of the pages. He would casually ask what we thought about the articles the desk published. “These are your pages too,” he would say. And, maybe, it was this strangely lovely environment that made the workplace a second home. In 2019, I left the desk for things I then assumed were better for me money wise, but there was this indescribable attachment to the desk because of which my heart just couldn’t rest. Every time anything happened in the country, I’d rush to see “my pages”. And when I told him that I’d like to walk on the road to redemption, he laughed out loud and reassured that the office’s doors were always open. To the outsider, what follows next may seem a bit melodramatic, but the return to the office meant coming back to home.
Some may assume that Zain was a strict boss and while I, too, was a bit scared of him, it was always a treat to see him enjoying moments with the desk. Zain celebrated birthdays; what made those celebrations really memorable was the fact that he knew we knew he wasn’t into such celebrations.
He would also bring a gift (books, obviously). Zain loved books and that love was so intense that there would hardly be any person who knew him and who didn’t bring books for him from his/her trip abroad. His face would break into a wide grin whenever he talked about books. I never had the chance to visit him at his house and only went there after he left us. There, I found his treasure – his books. On one of the shelves, I found a copy of the book he gifted me last year – Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s ‘The Shadow of the Wind’. The sight of the book instantly reminded me of the quote he had written on my copy, “Every book you see here has been somebody’s best friend.”
Zain was an exceptionally great writer. And while his arguments and writing style were impeccable, it was his humility that was incredible. He was pleasantly surprised when I told him that I found his articles quite ‘balanced’. And then asked what else I thought about his articles. Now when I think about that conversation, I can’t help but wonder how open he was to feedback. “Maybe, I will learn something from you.”
Even before the word ‘woke’ made it to the mainstream, Zain had already been practising it in principle. If the pages were late, the first thing he’d ask would be whether we’d be able to go back home easily. Working on the desk was a bit demanding. But he made sure that we had access to every resource that could help us work better. From working computers to even comfortable chairs, he made sure that his desk wasn’t even slightly inconvenienced.
There is so much that can (and should) be said about him. But it is nearly impossible to talk about him in limited words. On a personal level, it is too painful to talk about Zain’s death. At some point, the world without Zain will finally become less haunting. At present, however, I am concerned about every young Aimen who will now have to explore the world of journalism without Zain.
The writer is an assistant editor at The News
Email: aimen_erumhotmail. com
Twitter: manie_sid