Tariq Bhat: The storyteller who shaped my story

Some people enter our lives quietly, leaving behind footprints that never fade. My maternal uncle, Tariq Bhat, was one such soul—a man whose pen carried truth, whose voice resonated with reason and whose very presence shaped my life in ways words can barely describe. To the world, he was Tariq Bhat, THE WEEK's senior special correspondent in Jammu and Kashmir—a seasoned journalist whose commitment to accuracy, balance, and empathy made him one of the most respected media professionals in Jammu and Kashmir. But to me, he was Mamu, Brotherji, as I would lovingly call him—my mentor, my guide, my closest confidant. His sudden departure has left a silence that feels permanent. But, in that silence, every word of wisdom he ever shared echoes. ALSO READ: Remembering Tariq Bhat, THE WEEK's fearless voice from Kashmir I was born in Nawakadal, Srinagar, but destiny had its own plan for me. Just six months into my life, my maternal grandfather, the late Ghulam Nabi Bhat, a policeman by profession, adopted me with my father's consent. My childhood unfolded in Chotta Bazar, Kani Kadal, under the loving care of my grandparents, uncles, and aunts. Among them, the youngest—Tariq Mamu—stood out. Since my mother was the eldest in the family, I was treated like royalty, and he, my young uncle, became my world. As a child, I would see him come home late, often long after midnight, carrying newspapers and scribbled notes. I didn't understand what he did then—I only knew he worked with words. I still remember the year 1994, when I first used an old newspaper as a cover for my school notebook—little realising that one day, I would make my living through those very words printed on paper. He began his journalistic journey in 1997, first with Submission, then Indian Express, and finally, THE WEEK. By the time I was in class 12, around the year 2002, I began to understand what my Mamu truly did — chasing truth, shaping narratives, and giving voice to people who otherwise went unheard. I would watch him leave home early, only to return when the city had gone to sleep, still alert, still thoughtful, still curious. When I graduated in commerce, life took a turn. My father faced financial difficulties, and once again, it was Brotherji who appeared like an angel. He offered me a 'small job' as an office assistant in his newsroom, but it turned out to be the greatest classroom of my life. He made me sit beside him, observe how he drafted stories, talked to officials, cross-checked facts, and turned chaos into clarity. Soon, he urged me to pursue Post-Graduation in Mass Communication from IGNOU, paying my fees himself. He said, 'If you want to understand life, learn to tell its stories.' Those two years, from 2007 to 2008, were transformative. Every day was a lesson in journalism—not just how to report, but how to feel what others felt. After I completed my course, I joined the daily, Rising Kashmir, soon after its launch in 2008. Later, I spent almost a decade with Greater Kashmir as Senior Special Correspondent before returning to Rising Kashmir. In every phase, in every story I wrote, there was an invisible hand guiding me—his hand. Brotherji had an extraordinary way of teaching. He never imposed lessons; he simply lived them. He taught by example—his humility, patience, and work ethic were unmatched. He often reminded me, 'Good journalism begins when you stop chasing fame and start chasing facts.' ALSO READ: With Tariq Ahmad Bhat's departure, journalism in Kashmir has lost one of its sincere guardians What set him apart was not just his professionalism but his humanity. In a field often consumed by competition and cynicism, he carried empathy like a badge of honour. He was known for his calm temperament, balanced reporting, and deep understanding of Kashmir's social fabric. Yet, at home, he was a gentle soul—a man who made everyone feel valued. Whether it was a colleague seeking advice or a neighbour needing help, Brotherji was always there, ready to listen, ready to act. He was more than a journalist; he was a bridge—between generations, between ideologies, between silence and understanding. He had that rare gift of making even the most complex issues seem simple, both in his writing and in life. When I look back today, I realise that every step of my journey was quietly mapped by him. My first byline, my first interview, my first political story—he celebrated them as if they were his own. And whenever I faltered, his words echoed in my mind: 'Don't write to impress, write to express.' November 4, 2025, will remain the darkest day of my life. His sudden passing from a heart attack at our ancestral home in Chotta Bazar shattered me completely. It wasn't just the loss of an uncle; it was like losing my second father, my mentor, my dearest friend. For days, I couldn't pick up my pen. The very tool he had taught me to wield, felt heavy without him around. Yet, even in his absence, he continues to guide me. Each time I file a story, each time I edit a line, I imagine him sitting beside me, smiling softly, saying, 'Now that's how you tell it.' His legacy is not limited to the stories he wrote for THE WEEK—it lives through the countless journalists he inspired, the principles he upheld, and the family he nurtured with boundless love. Brotherji, as I would lovingly call him, wasn't just the man who taught me journalism, he was the man who taught me life. His ink runs through my veins, his ideals through my conscience, and his voice through every word I write. The author is the nephew of Tariq Bhat and a journalist working with Rising Kashmir as senior special correspondent.