On my third day at The Sunday Island, a lean ‘no nonsense’ type of a personality
caught my attention. Radiating the stature and decorum of the old school to the last detail, he turned out to be Clifford Hieler. A few weeks passed by and except for the pleasantries exchanged in the morning, there was hardly any conversation between us until one day I received word through another colleague that he needed to ‘discuss a matter’ with me. I was rather baffled.
Mincing no words he warned me not to pursue the assignment I was to take up the next day and warned me further that if I did, it meant getting into the soup. Cutting a long story short, he was absolutely right and I was relieved that I heeded his call. That was the beginning of a great friendship transcending age and vintage yet cemented over trust, good humour and words of wisdom.
One of the last remnants of the old school of journalists dating back to Lake
House days, he was ‘Cliff’ to his contemporaries, Mr. Hieler to us younger people and ‘Master’ to some . To me, he was ‘Sir Cliff’. The ‘knighthood’ I bestowed on him provided him constant amusement until the last day I saw him in person in the office. He claimed to be of German lineage. “Hieler is all German”, he used to proclaim and I called him ‘Hitler’ in return, adding, it resonated the dictator in name and action sometimes! He chuckled and chuckled.
Occupying the desk next to grand old Mr. Hieler, I was transported to an age gone
by – of cloak rooms, white coats at editorials, high teas and female scribes sporting fashionable regalia! A fashionable man himself who would sport well-polished shoes and crisply ironed shirts, Mr. Hieler’s working desk was all in order- everything filed and labeled.
A lover of coffee, he would count on the cup I made for him out of my well-
stocked drawer. Two of us would enjoy ‘All Ballads Thursday’ sharing an
earphone each on my phone and sipping our coffee.
A man who lived life, Mr. Hieler enjoyed a puff and a drink with his colourful
network of friends. A break at work would be a smoke outside the office premises in a contemplative mood, at times gazing at the dome of the St. Lucia’s Cathedral. I would make a passing remark: “tobacco tax should increase and a pack of cigarettes should double in price”. He would dismiss me with, “nonsense. None of that would affect Clifford Hieler” and would inhale deeply for dramatic effect.
A gifted vocalist who took pride in his singing days at St. Joseph’s College
Colombo and the parish church, Mr. Hieler would hum a tune often while going
through his stack of weekly crossword puzzles and Funny Captions. With a
chuckle he would break his reverie and show me a witty piece of writing or a
poorly crafted copy, complementing it all with his favourite buzz word ‘rascals’!
His other indulgence was his precious ‘Jenny girl’, the mischievous and spoilt
dachshund who was allowed to feast on the best of human edibles. A man who
would not tolerate indiscipline, he spared Jenny not only his rod but also his rage
even when it went to the extreme of vandalising his drawing room sofa beyond
repair!
He looked tough and he could be tough at times, but inside him was a man of
warmth and sensitivity. A father figure to all of us younger fellow journalists, he
was my special friend who would lend a patient ear and offer words of
encouragement during rocky times at work. He was concerned about our families and our children.
A man with a large heart, he would spoil us with Kandos chocolate, masala thosai
and vadai. There were Vani Villa days and McDonald days too. In this mood for
festivity, he would not forget my young daughter – the benefactor of the largest
slab of Kandos Cashewnut chocolate on most Fridays! All little notes of ‘thank
you’ from her went into his drawer.
Fiercely loyal to the Sunday Island and Upali Newspapers until his last working
day, Mr. Hieler was a man of integrity and gentleman to the last letter. A god
fearing man, he was spared of suffering his passing, joining his better half Bernie
and angels in heaven, peacefully in his slumber. He was 75-years old with a heart
so young.
I miss you terribly ‘Sir Cliff’, yet I’m grateful that I celebrated you in life. It is the gift of ‘words’ which moved you most above the birthday or the Christmas gift I
faithfully placed in your hands every year. On one occasion, I shared the wisdom
of my favourite poet Maya Angelou scribbled in a birthday card, “people will
forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget
how you made them feel.” You made me feel safe and happy at the ‘Island-home’.
The words moved you and welled your eyes. All the notes of affection I gave you
were safely deposited in a file. You would retrieve them and scan and give a knowing smile and nod. You were proud of my achievements as a journalist and
my last phone call to you three years ago, was in the wake of another accolade.
Your final words to me deeply disturbed me though I had no inclination that they
were meant to be your words of farewell. “I feel that the curtain is going to fall on
me soon puthe” still reverberate in my mind.
It’s hard to believe that you have been gone for three years my darling ‘Sir Cliff’.
Had you lived, you would have been a doting grandpa to Mario’s and Kushlani’s
little son. ‘Jenny girl’ too is gone, but I’m certain you would have met her one more time among the stars. Each time I pass our favourite haunts in Kotahena I feel a lump in my throat. You were very much a part of my best ever newspaper experience.
I will cherish you in one of the deepest corners of my heart consoling myself with
Dr. Seuss’ wisdom: ‘don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened…’