It was nearly half a century ago that Ian Jack, a sensitive journalist and an elegant and empathetic writer, first came to India. We met at a friend’s place and, over time, bonded over an unusual subject: typography. Times New Roman in letterpress, the slight depressions made by the letters on the card I printed for him, began a friendship that was to last until he passed away suddenly last week.
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How strange it is to grieve for a loss long distance. Somehow mourning requires a sense of presence, to be surrounded by people or things left behind. For many of Ian’s friends in India, people who were special to him, as he was to them, the sense of an irreplaceable loss is something we all share.
That first visit began a long relationship with India and things Indian. It led to close friends, marriage, a home and family in Kolkata, a deep involvement in Bengal, a taste for Indian food, columns in Indian papers. At one time, he spent a year in India, working on a book. He lived in Delhi, renting a space in the house of the legendary editor, Shamlal. Not surprisingly, the two bonded over the two things they loved: books and writing.
Most of all, the Indian connection allowed him to pursue an abiding interest in trains — mostly steam-driven — and railways. Armed with old and somewhat tattered copies of old Bradshaw’s — the railway guides that provided details of the arrival and departure time of every train, and even of tea stalls and waiting rooms — Ian travelled on trains, watched engines huff past, went to locomotive yards, spent time in the rail museum and read up old files in the railway ministry.
Man of the people
His journeys yielded fascinating stories: of abandoned steamships in Balagarh, barely an hour from Kolkata, of William Carey and the Serampore Mission Press and so much more. Several of these are detailed in Mofussil Junction: Indian Encounters 1977-2012, a book that captures so much of what connected him to India.
On one of his visits, I travelled with him to Amethi to meet with Rajiv Gandhi who was staying at the palace of the raja, Sanjay Singh (then with the Congress). We drove in an old Ambassador in the blistering heat — cars did not have air conditioners then — and occupied our travel time with lively discussions, one of which was about whether a glass of cold water or a chilled gin and tonic would be better at the end of a long and dusty journey. Ian opted for the gin, I for the water and in the end, the water won. He gave in with good grace and went on to do a detailed and fascinating interview, interspersed with liberal servings of kebabs and beer, which lasted deep into the night.
Full of curiosity about politics and history, Ian also had an abiding interest in people and it was this that led him to explore the small stories, the hidden histories.
He carried with him, into every journalistic encounter, his self-restraint and that rare quality — the ability to listen — as well as his unobtrusive notebook.
Later, as editor of Granta, he became a receiver of stories. We sometimes talked about the stories and writers in India, many of whom he knew. He found it difficult to say no, and yet he did so gently, often with good advice about rewriting and refining. I know many people, including myself, who benefited from his excellent and sharp editing.
With grace and nuance
This skill of saying yes and no with equal grace was evident when Ian put together the first issue of Granta in India, a project in which I assisted him. Together we sought out stories and writers. The photographer Dayanita Singh still remembers watching him sort through her photographs and make a selection; the photo essay Granta carried would become iconic in time.
No involvement with India can leave aside Bollywood or Mahabharat. Ian’s friendship with Nasreen Kabir, scholar and writer on Hindi cinema, led him to the songs of Lata Mangeshkar and the importance of popular cinema, even in the U.K. Similarly, although not familiar with the Hindu epics, he was fascinated by Paris-based poet Karthika Naïr’s stunning take on the book and helped publish parts of it.
In more recent years, the connection with India became more distanced although the friendships remained. Ian remarried, and together with his wife, Lindy Sharpe, a writer and researcher, they built a family and a home. Death came to him in his beloved Scotland, with the people he loved most, Lindy and their children Isabella and Alexander being nearby.
Many tributes to Ian have spoken of his long career as journalist, editor and writer, his books and his sense of what Great Britain had become, his concern at the passing of a way of life that valued the people who worked to make the things that hold our lives together. Bringing grace and nuance to everything he wrote, Ian had no interest in posturing or practising the kind of muscular journalism that is so prevalent today.
Sadly, they don’t make journalists like him any more.
The writer is a feminist publisher and director, Zubaan Publishers.
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