Arun Ranjan: A Tribute Rooted in Memory and Meaning .

(First published on 17.07.25 on my FB wall.)

Arun Ranjan was not just a towering figure in Hindi journalism — he was a thinker with the instincts of a reporter, the sharpness of a social scientist, and the soul of a teacher. 

Starting in the late 1970s and continuing in key editorial roles till 2001, he bore witness to the seismic shifts in Bihar’s politics, caste equations, and media landscape. 

His journalism was forged in the fire of real events: the Belchhi massacre, Bhagalpur jail blindings, slow-moving trials like that of Lalit Narayan Mishra’s murder, and the violent intersections of land struggles and private armies like the Sunlight Sena and the Ranveer Sena.

His reports on rural violence and land struggles found a wider audience with some of them being translated into English by the likes of his academic- turned journalist and author friend Dr Arvind N Das for publication in The Times of India, Probe and Blitz. At least one of his reports was made part of an anthology titled Violence Erupt. 

He had a formidable team of journalists Arun Sinha (TOI) and Hemendra Narayan ( Statesman) along with the quintessential cameraman Krishna Murari Kishan. This group became synonymous with field reporting in Bihar. 

Arun Ranjan belonged to that rare breed of journalists who believed in decoding new trends rather than just echoing received wisdom. Even before the political elite came to terms with the rising power of backward castes, his reportage had already prophesied their ascent — seen in Karpoori Thakur’s rise in 1977 and later in Lalu Prasad and Nitish Kumar. 

He was part of an ecosystem that was largely socialist but never allowed ideology to override facts. His journalism was evidence-based, and his allegiance lay with truth, not tribe.

His reports didn’t just inform; they theorised. He coined terms that have now become part of the lexicon of political analysis in the Hindi belt: *Janadhar ki Rajniti* (the politics of mass base) and *Janadesh ki Rajniti* (the politics of broad mandate). His language was uniquely his own — a Hindi both rich and grounded, drawing from Sanskrit, Apabhransh, Persian, English, Bhojpuri, Magahi, Angika and modern Indian languages. His words didn’t just follow grammar; they followed purpose and he appeared to be dictating his terms to the language. A rare grasp of content and form indeed. Through his reports, many first-generation learners in Hindi journalism acquired both linguistic skill and analytical depth.

In the early 1990s, while serving as Resident Editor of *Navbharat Times*, Patna, he penned a landmark single-column front page editorial titled *मन नहीं लगता है*. It captured the suffocating spread of caste consciousness among even the elite, and his own struggle to stay committed to data-led, truthful narratives. His intellectual discipline refused to confuse narrative with fact — he often challenged the exceptionalising of the mainstream and the mainstreaming of exceptions.

Arun Ranjan transitioned from print to television in 2000–2001 as Senior Editor at *Zee News*. He brought with him a powerful skill rare among print journalists — the ability to generate story ideas that were not just socially meaningful but also visually powerful. Coming from a background where words reigned supreme, he adapted to visuals with remarkable ease, always ensuring that the story remained central.

He was a generous mentor to generations of journalists from the 1970s to the 2010s — what Mahavir Prasad Dwivedi was to Hindi prose in the early 20th century, Arun Ranjan was to Hindi journalism. A figure akin to Shivpoojan Sahay, or even Ezra Pound — shaping many while staying largely in the background himself. His mentoring continued until his health began to fail around mid-2023. Even then, his presence loomed large.

I had the good fortune of working under him between 1991 and 1994 at *Navbharat Times*, Patna. A decade later, he generously recommended me to join the newly formed Jagran Institute of Management and Mass Communication (JIMMC) as a professor. He became the mentor of the institute itself, advising faculty, guiding students, and preparing lectures that distilled decades of field experience. 

 Once, he came to me with a five-page note for his first class. It was packed with insight and structure — the anatomy of a true report. I advised him to turn it into five lectures. He laughed and said, “I was a reporter; you made me a teacher.”

He trusted the intellect of younger journalists and gave them the freedom to disagree. In 1992, when I interviewed Dr. Bindeshwar Pathak of Sulabh International, I allowed the readers to judge his claims of being the father of Action Sociology alongside August Comte who is considered the father of modern Sociology. Dr Pathak later sent three of his books for review. Arun Ranjan Ji handed them to me, gently absorbing the heat from above, and told me: “Do what you like.” That was the kind of editorial shelter he provided — rooted in faith, not control. I didn't review the books because all the stuff was already covered in the very long interview with Dr Pathak. 

He remained a freelancer for most of his life, save his tenures with *Navbharat Times* and *Zee News*. I recall a ride with him once to the Mahatma Gandhi Setu over the Ganga. As we stepped out, he turned to me and said: “Chandrakant, you have to jump into the river — the river of life — to find your own place. Nothing comes cheap — not reporting, not truth, not self-respect.” On the return, he said with quiet admiration, “ M. J. Akbar (Editor, Sunday) paid me ₹500 for a story idea. Most Hindi editors won’t even pay what they owe: byline or bare minimum remuneration.” These weren’t complaints; they were the reflections of a man navigating loneliness at the top with dignity.

After the sudden and tragic loss of his only son, Arun Ranjan became increasingly a recluse. He read voraciously — books translated into Hindi from Russian, French, German, Marathi, Bangla, Malayalam, Odia, Dogri, and more — always curious, always open. The warmth of his wife, Smt. Shobha Sinha (Baby Bhabhi), was the quiet constant in his orbit. His being was almost unimaginable without her mostly invisible presence. 

Much later he moved from his Aakash Bharti apartment to the Noida residence of his daughter Sajja Sinha and son-in-law Manoj Manu, both senior TV journalists who took good care of him and whose both loving sons provided to him the much needed young warmth and the endless list of childlike queries. 

Though often seen as a rationalist, I saw in him a Vedic seeker — an *Akashdharmi* man longing for limitlessness. In his final months, this longing consumed his cognition, and he drifted into an inner world. The end came on 23rd June 2025 in his beloved wife's arms at his Noida residence at 8 PM. 

Our last conversation was in May 2023. It wasn’t about journalism or politics. It was about my personal and professional journey. He wanted me to take an easier path post - retirement from the University. I didn’t. I decided to move to my village for three years to take on the task left unfinished by my family elders. He said, “You don’t want to heed my advice? I won’t call again.” And he didn’t. I too held back — not from anger, but from the fear and out of reverence that his questions would see right through me.

Now I know: he would have embraced me anyway. Because he was the umbrella — gentle, wide, always above.

Arun Ji, Bhaiya to many, Sir to some — we thank you deeply. Journalism in Hindi is richer, deeper, and more human because of you. Come back soon, in a form our land and profession deserve. 

Copyright: Chandrakant P Singh