In the early 1990s, during my student days, I rented a room in the Sarai Jullena settlement, adjacent to Delhi’s Okhla area, after finishing my exams. I then left for Kashmir to spend my holidays.
After 15 to 20 days at home, I embarked on a grueling 27-hour bus journey back to Delhi, eager to return to my room and rest. However, upon arrival, I found a different lock on the door.
The landlord, who lived on the second floor, informed me that about a week earlier, the police had broken in and searched the room. Back then, my entire world fit inside a single rexine suitcase, containing a few books and two pairs of clothes. I was told the police had confiscated it.
The landlord explained that the police had instructed him to inform them as soon as I arrived. "They should be here any moment," he said. "If you need to make a phone call or go somewhere, do it quickly."
Escape was not an option. But whom could I even call? Back home in Kashmir, neither my family nor anyone in our entire town had a telephone. In Delhi, I had no acquaintances with access to one either.
With only a faint hope, I dialled the office of the renowned documentary filmmaker Tapan Bose, located in the Safdarjung Development Area (SDA). His cameraman, Salim Sheikh picked up the phone and I narrated my predicament, with little hope.
I barely knew Tapan Bose personally. A little while later, plainclothes policemen arrived. Back then, the Special Cell on Lodhi Road had not yet been established. Sikh militancy in Punjab was still at its peak, and Delhi Police’s anti-terrorism unit operated from an office in Dev Nagar, Karol Bagh. I was taken there.
After the customary police "welcome," I was thrown into a lock-up. Every time a new policeman or constable came on duty, they took me out and contributed their share to my "interrogation."
From inside the lock-up, I could see the police station’s courtyard. Early the next morning, I saw Tapan Bose and the late Advocate Salar Mohammad Khan, entering the Station House Officer’s (SHO) office. They were not allowed to meet me, but the beatings stopped. Instead of being kept in the lock-up, I was moved to the police quarters.
The station suddenly became abuzz with activity. The next day, a senior officer — either the Deputy Commissioner of Police (DCP) or someone even higher — arrived. I was taken to him. Tapan Bose was also present, and eventually, I was formally handed over to him.
After this ordeal, the landlord refused to give me my room back. In the meantime, I found out that some of my exam papers had been returned, indicating I had failed. The retest was scheduled in just a few weeks. Tapan arranged a bed for me in his office and asked me to stay there until my exams were completed.
On January 30, when the news of Tapan Bose’s passing at the age of 78 reached me, all these memories kept playing in my mind like a film.
Tapan’s residence was adjacent to his office. His film company, in which Suhasini Mule was also a partner, later became known in Bollywood circles. Every evening, the office room where I stayed would host gatherings of eminent personalities. I often saw Naseeruddin Shah, Ibrahim Alkazi, Om Puri, and bureaucrat Ashok Jaitley — who later became the Chief Secretary of Jammu and Kashmir — among many others in these gatherings.
During those days, Tapan’s office was a refuge for Kashmiri students in Delhi. Whenever someone faced a problem, they turned to him or his close associate, Gautam Navlakha.
Acquaintance with Tapan Bose
My acquaintance with Tapan Bose happened under unusual circumstances. Anyone familiar with Kashmir’s history knows that January 1990 was a catastrophic time for the region.
On the night of January 19, hours after Jagmohan Malhotra took charge as Governor, tragedy struck the Gawkadal area in the heart of Srinagar.
That January alone, an estimated 300 people were killed across the Valley. In May, 60 more lives were lost when security forces fired upon the funeral procession of Mirwaiz Maulvi Mohammad Farooq.
At that time, Kashmiri students in Delhi were few, and all were consumed by uncertainty. News of mass killings kept arriving from Kashmir, but the telephone and postal systems were in complete disarray.
A section of Indian socialists had always harboured a soft spot for Kashmir. Among them were Mridula Sarabhai, Ram Manohar Lohia, and Jayaprakash Narayan. The last prominent name in this tradition in those days was George Fernandes.
When news of the Gawkadal massacre reached Delhi, a group of us sat outside Fernandes’ residence at 3 Krishna Menon Road in silent protest. The police began issuing warnings, but Fernandes himself came out to console us. Though his words offered little reassurance, he directed us to meet Ravi Nair and Tapan Bose.
In February 1990, a delegation comprising Tapan Bose, IIT professor Dinesh Mohan, Samanta Banerjee, and Gautam Navlakha visited Kashmir. They formed the Committee for Initiative on Kashmir, the first-ever human rights delegation to visit the region.
Upon their return in March, they released a detailed report titled India’s War in Kashmir, which created a major stir. Even today, it echoes in international human rights circles.
Later, my late friend Salar Mohammad Khan began publishing the Kashmir Dossier from Tapan Bose’s office, where I helped him gather content and manage production. This journal played a crucial role in delivering real-time updates from Kashmir to Delhi’s intellectual circles.
Tapan Bose was also one of the founders of the Pakistan-India People’s Forum for Peace and Democracy (PIPFPD), a grassroots initiative for fostering cross-border dialogue. Unlike elite-driven initiatives like SAFMA and Aman Ki Asha, which primarily facilitated travel for the privileged, PIPFPD was deeply connected to the people.
I recall a major PIPFPD convention held in Kolkata from 28–31 December 1996, where over 400 Pakistani delegates participated. Figures like I.A. Rehman, Nirmal Mukherjee, Admiral Ramdas, and Mubashir Hassan drew inspiration and authenticity for striving for peace.
Upon Tapan Bose’s passing, Kashmir Times editor Anuradha Bhasin remarked: "Tapan Bose was not just any ordinary warrior, he was the marg darshak and mentor for many warriors like us…….. A fountainhead of inspiration and an ocean of wisdom, it was his steely and stubborn determination, his energy, and his clear vision for a liberal world order that made him a shining north star for many liberals, activists, academics and journalists.”
His documentaries on the Bhagalpur blindings and the Bhopal gas tragedy were internationally acclaimed, exposing state and corporate negligence. He was also part of the People’s Tribunal on Ayodhya, which analysed the communal politics behind the Babri Masjid demolition.
Tapan Bose’s legacy will endure. His words will continue to resonate. His vision will live on. His passing has left an irreplaceable void in South Asia's struggle for peace, human rights, and justice.
Farewell, Tapan. The heart that beat for Kashmir and Kashmiris in Delhi has fallen silent forever.
Have you liked the news article?