Each morning, as a matter of habit, I wake up, sip my tea, and open my Facebook page for a quick glance through the day’s news. While scrolling, one particular post caught my eye.

The moment I read it, I was carried back into memory.

It must have been around 1:00 or 1:30 in the night. Two of us were asleep inside a tent at the fairground when suddenly a torchbeam cut through the darkness and the sound of voices came from outside. A policeman slightly lifted the tent flap and peered in, saying in Gujarati, “This tent has been allotted for our DM sahib. You will have to vacate it.”

By then we were both awake.

Stepping outside, we found several people standing there. With my natural pressman’s instinct, I addressed the policeman in Hindi: “We have come here as guests of the Gujarat Government. It is hardly proper to wake people in the middle of the night and disturb them like this.”

The gentleman beside me smiled faintly at this. Then a middle-aged man came forward and apologized, saying, “We are sorry for disturbing you at night.” In the midst of this exchange, the PRO of the Gujarat Tourism Department arrived. After taking in the entire scene, he turned to the DM and said, “Sir, he is Raghu Rai.”

The DM stepped forward at once, shook hands with him in evident embarrassment, and then did the same with me, apologizing once again for the late-night disturbance. But the gentleman standing beside me replied immediately, “If this tent has been allotted to us by mistake, we can shift to another one. There is no difficulty at all. After all, this is the DM sahib’s tent.”

The DM, now deeply apologetic, said, “No, no, sir, please remain here. You are our guest. I shall move to another tent.” At this point, an officer nearby remarked, “Sir, that is not a VIP tent.” The DM bristled and replied, “Do you know who he is? He is the world-renowned photographer and Padma Shri awardee Raghu Ray Chaudhury.” (At that time, I did not even know Raghuji’s full name.)

He then once again folded his hands and said, “Please come tomorrow morning; we will have breakfast together.” Turning to us, he added, “You must come too. I am a great admirer of your programme.”

This little nocturnal drama must have unfolded in 2001 or 2002. At that time, I was associated with Surabhi, the much-loved programme telecast on DD1. I had come to Gujarat to cover the tribal fair at Sarsa village — the Gar Mela, or Kavant Mela.

After the DM had left, we returned to the tent and resumed our conversation. Sleep had long since deserted us. As we spoke, I came to know that Raghuji had in fact been expected the following day. But since his previous assignment had finished ahead of schedule, he had arrived a day early. Because no advance arrangements had been made for him by the fair management, he was placed in the DM’s tent. And since I happened, by chance, to be without another tent that night, I had the good fortune of becoming his tent-mate.

Sharing a tent with Raghuji was an unforgettable experience. One especially interesting thing that emerged in conversation — something I already knew, though hearing it from him made it feel all the more vivid — was the ancient character of this fair. On the final day, the people of two villages gather in an open field, accompanied by tribal music and dance. After the singing and dancing are over, they divide into two groups, each representing a village, and then begins the traditional exchange of stones. It is a long-established custom. In several other tribal fairs across Gujarat too, stones are thrown as part of the ritual.

Raghuji had earlier photographed similar scenes in another village, but this year he had come here specifically to capture this one, along with the tribal fair itself.

As our conversation moved from one subject to another, we spoke of Kolkata, with which he had been closely connected for many years. From there the talk drifted to the Bangladesh War, Mother, old heritage houses, and the history of the region. In the midst of all this, dawn came quietly, unnoticed. Through the slit in the tent, the first light of morning was already beginning to appear. I shall never forget that strange and beautiful companionship of a few brief hours.

We were also taken to a special rooftop from where the entire stone-throwing ritual could be viewed. A truly great person is not famous merely by chance; greatness is composed of many qualities. First, I — an ordinary man — had become agitated, while he, without the slightest loss of composure, had spoken humbly: “Please shift me to another tent.” And yet I had been the one displaying attitude. That, indeed, is the mark of greatness.

He also showed me several angles from which the event could be better covered. That lesson has remained with me ever since, and I know it will remain with me for as long as I live. My deepest respect and salutations to Raghuji. I have seen very few photographers as gifted as he was.

But he was not only a superb photographer; I had the privilege of witnessing firsthand that he was also a profoundly gracious and noble human being. I felt that this half-night’s story deserved to be preserved as a memory, and so I have shared it with all of you.

I am not a professional writer, and so my words may well contain many imperfections. But perhaps I will never again have another opportunity to give voice to what I felt in my heart. So, this is my humble tribute to him. Whoever he may be, may he rest in peace. I pray for the peace of his departed soul.