Nobody knew for sure how he came to be called by that rather too familiar name. Rumours attributed it to brief stints as lecturer in a Mumbai journalism institute, filling in for old friends who happened to be nursing hangovers. But to a few of us -- young, eager journalists when we first met him -- Prof had much more to teach in the school of life than in any musty classroom.

Early in his career, Prof had sorted out his priorities with an enviable clarity. Not for him the itch to occupy the exalted editor's chair. His itches lay elsewhere. In the noisy bars amidst his many opinionated buddies, in his adored books, and in his small but classy music collection. He chose to become -- and remained till he retired -- a sub-editor. Contrary to popular beliefoutside the newspaper business, that is not someone who is just half a level below the editor. A sub-editor is the faceless, nondescript pencil-pusher hired to make contributors' copy readable.

The decision freed him of the pressures that nag senior editorial positions. His language skills ensuring him a steady job and the enduring respect of his colleagues. Above all, Prof loved the ten-to-six routine of the copy desk. It gave him the opportunity to savour home-made meals at leisure, and the time to read the newspaper in detail and solve its daily crossword puzzle in a haze of beedi smoke. And also the time to indulge guiltlessly in the city's less printable pastimes.

His job in a women's magazine brought out the worst of his short-tempered angularities. Although he denounced dowry and other social ills against women, he could barely stand strident, city-bred feminists. "The plainer they look, the shriller they sound," he would mutter ungallantly under his breath after crossing verbal swords with themore vocal among them. He once gleefully rejected a long-winded quasi-scholarly report on female labourers in rural Bihar from one such writer, with the logician's clinching argument: "The percentages in the accompanying chart don't add up to 100."

He loved to argue more so if it helped prick an inflated posture. Prof would turn into an ardent Hindutva supporter whenever he met a pseudo-secularist, and could transform himself swiftly into a Naxalite in the company of an over-zealous market reformer. His tastes in the arts were similarly eclectic: K.L. Saigal, M.S. Subbalakshmi, Bertrand Russell, P.G. Wodehouse and Satyajit Ray.

Prof was an unabashed admirer of beauty, whether it came wrapped in a tender musical note, in an exquisite turn of phrase or in a colourful saree. But he squirmed at cloying sentimentality and would promptly shred it with his crisp one-liners. It was this trait that sustained him in fine fettle for over eighty eventful and sometimes rough years, before emphysema took its toll.Till the end, though, he never fell prey to geriatric self-pity and retained his sunny disposition as well as his slim physique, his thick black hair and his smooth, fair skin. "Alcohol is the best preservative," he had reparteed when a lady once complimented him on his youthful looks.

Mercifully, his last day was filled with fun and laughter. He enjoyed a huge Sunday brunch of South Indian delicacies, bantered with guests, watched Sachin Tendulkar on TV clobbering a hapless bowler, and then slumped on the way to the bedroom for his siesta. It was a bit early in the day for his mandatory sundowner. But I doubt he skipped it. He probably raised a toast later that evening with God. Or better still, with one of His prettier angels.