Ramesh Menon, a close associate of J Dey, u00a0speaks about his experiences with the reporter, u00a0both on the professional front and off it

The true magnitude of the loss is yet to sink in. My mind keeps saying, "He couldn't have gone. Not this way."
It is ironic that by reminiscing about Dey, I will put him in the limelight, something that made him uncomfortable.
It was in 1998, that I first met him at the Central Intelligence Unit (CIU) office at Andheri (East).


J Dey on an assignment in Porbandar in Gujarat last year. pic/Pradeep Dhivar

In those years of rampant underworld activity, the CIU was the nerve-centre of all investigative action. Such was his solemn demeanour that I mistook him for an officer. We immediately struck up a friendship.

Dey was working for the Indian Express. We met sporadically, and he always evinced great interest in my stories.

He was ready to share his veritable exploits, but guarded his vast reserves of confidential information. He was one of the most resourceful men I have ever met.

"Sir, kahaan ho?" he would ask on the phone, his booming voice echoing. "Chalo miltey hain chai ki dukaan pe, main aata hoon aap ki side," and he would hang up, somewhat abruptly, almost taking for granted that I would meet him.

Dey never talked shop on the phone. If he did, he used a specific jargon, which would take some time to decipher.
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When something caught his particular attention, he would dig out his weathered little small pocket book and scribble down facts.

Dey had an extraordinary eye for detail. His style was that of an old-school reporter he believed in reaching the spot to dig out the truth.

Not one for adding sensationalism, he always exercised restraint, and was effortlessly objective. The hallmarks of his style were a penetrating clarity, and unimpeachable accuracy. An authority on the underworld, he had access deep into that world.

I remember turning to him after being conned at the Mumbai domestic airport by touts exchanging foreign currency. I had lost a large sum of money, and the cops simply shrugged.

But Dey immediately sprang into action, and before I knew it, I was walking into the airport with Dey, and a MiD DAY photographer in tow. The next day, the expose was on the front page, and three days later, cops tracked the gang.

Dey had tracked the entire nexus at the airport. That was the journalist in him.

Technology fascinated him. He always strove to educate himself on gizmos, and their application in modern crime. We tried to dig out the truth about match- fixing in u00a0cricket.

Passionate about sports, u00a0he would be disheartened every time he unearthed information about betting.
We shared our last conversation about ten days back.

As always, he offered to drop by the chai ki dukaan, but circumstances prevented us from meeting and our last meeting was deferred to that fateful Saturday, after a phone call from a friend told me of his death.

I drove frantically to Hiranandani Hospital in Powai, hoping fervently that it u00a0was not Dey, but my hopes were dashed it was all Khallas.u00a0