There is a storm brewing within me, threatening to burst into an ocean of tears, but he would not like to see me weak—not one bit. If there is anything unbelievable for me at this moment, it is the bitter fact that Misraji is no more. I struggle to keep the lid shut; I am not allowed any tears. And why should tears be shed for someone who must be celebrated? Misraji has left behind countless memories, countless lessons, countless stories for everyone. Each person who met him carries exclusive memories of RK Misra, the veteran Gujarat journalist who passed away in the wee hours of February 23, 2026.
Exclusive, yes—much like the way Misraji wrote. I am not writing this to describe the huge vacuum he has left in my life, for which I have no vocabulary. I write this to recount some journalistic lessons I learnt from him and to reflect on RK’s trademark style of practising journalism on his own terms. If anyone believes aggressive journalism cannot be practised in today’s India, go back and read his uniquely titled blog, “Newsplumbers & Wordsmiths,” as distinctive as his inimitable style.
I consider myself fortunate to have learnt journalism from two doyens—MK Mistry and RK Misra. If MKM, as he was known in journalistic circles, taught me the ‘alphabet’, RKM taught me the ‘grammar’.
RK Misra (The Pioneer), Bishan Kumar (The Indian Express), and I (The Asian Age), along with another journalist, once travelled to South Gujarat to cover LK Advani’s Surajya Yatra in the 1990s. We were waiting on the highway in our cab when Advani’s cavalcade arrived. “Tum dekh rahe ho, the variety of luxury cars! Gaadiyan badh gayi hai inki rally mein, log kam dikh rahe hain (Do you notice the luxury cars have increased, but the number of people seems fewer),” Misraji observed.
I registered the remark and used it to begin my story, which he appreciated—a rare compliment from him. But the real story was not how I wrote mine; it was what RK Misra wrote—stunning! I still remember his opening paragraph: “Riding astride the opulence of a party in power, LK Advani’s Surajya Yatra entered Gujarat to an impoverished welcome from an unconcerned populace.”
Now, for how he practised journalism on his own terms. Those were typewriter days, and none of us had a portable one. We went to The Indian Express bureau office in Surat to file our stories, but there was only one typewriter. Out of courtesy, everyone asked RK Misra to file his copy first. He refused and said he would write after everyone else was done.
When we insisted that he go first because he had an earlier deadline, Misraji smiled: “They will wait.” And they did. Space was left on Page One for him while the rest of the paper had already been made up. No one asked what his story was about before deciding its placement—and this was under the inimitable taskmaster Vinod Mehta at The Pioneer. And what space it was: five columns!
When RK was out of action for nearly a year, every publication he wrote for—whether as a Roving Editor or columnist—continued to send his salary. When he returned, his columns were waiting for him. That is what it means to live on one’s own terms. Mind you, he was not a staffer at any of these publications—a situation Misraji consciously created and chose.
Once he identified a paper, he would approach it with an offer to write. As he told me, most would say they couldn’t pay, though they needed stories from Gujarat. Misraji would respond that he was not discussing money—only a writing arrangement. Within a couple of stories, the accounts department would begin calling him for his bank details.
What did he write to evoke such a response? “Nothing new, as always,” he would shrug. Then he explained: “Remember one thing—no story is small; it is the reporter who is small. No newspaper is small; it is the journalist who is small. Put in your best, as though you were writing for The New York Times. And don’t forget, the paper needs the story more than you do.”
Though he worked entirely on his own terms, RK would instantly honour any request from an editor—no matter the hour or how tight the deadline. He once told me about a foreign publication that called him at 1 a.m. IST after another journalist declined, citing prior commitments. They had three hours to deadline in their time zone. Misraji delivered the story at 4 a.m. IST. From then on, he became a regular contributing editor for them.
I learnt the art of enjoying writing, reading, and debating ideas with him. We would discuss intros and headlines for hours—over the phone or in person. Those conversations still echo in my ears. I felt deeply honoured when he once shared a one-liner from his story and appreciated the headline I suggested.
His line was about a visit by the President of India to the Gir lion sanctuary decades ago: “The Head of the Indian State had a date with the King of the Jungle today.” My headline, which he generously praised, was: “In UP, the Law Needs an Order”—for a story on the deteriorating law and order situation in Uttar Pradesh in 2006–07.
Misraji—Sirji, as I often called him—may no longer be here in flesh and blood. But his baritone voice, his messages, his warm emails, his words, his laughter—they all echo around me as though he were still present.
Misraji has not gone.
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*Senior Gujarat- based journalist
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