Remembering Mark Tully: A Voice, A Mentor, A Friend

Sir William Mark Tully (October 24, 1935 – January 25, 2026) was one of the most influential broadcast journalists of the twentieth century, a name synonymous with the BBC’s presence in South Asia. Born in Calcutta and raised between India and Britain, he became the voice through which much of the world came to understand the subcontinent — its politics, its people, its tragedies, and its triumphs. Over a career spanning decades, Tully combined rigorous reporting with a rare human sensitivity, earning admiration across borders and generations.

Mark Sahab passed away in a New Delhi hospital on Sunday. He was 90. For millions across India, Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh, and beyond, Tully’s voice was more than a familiar presence — it was an anchor. His calm, measured delivery became the gold standard of broadcast journalism, shaping global understanding of a region often misunderstood or oversimplified. His reporting spanned wars, political upheavals, social movements, and the everyday rhythms of life, always marked by clarity, fairness, and deep empathy.

Tully joined the BBC in 1965 and soon became the defining voice of the corporation’s India coverage, leading its operations here for decades. His resignation in 1994, after a protracted clash with senior management, was widely seen as the close of an era — not only for the BBC but for the practice of international journalism itself. In the months before he stepped down, he openly criticised the then director general, John Birt, accusing him of governing the organisation through “fear”. For many, Tully’s departure came to symbolise the passing of a gentler, more humane tradition of reporting, rooted in curiosity, empathy and long-form engagement with place and people.

Yet he remained a presence on the BBC’s airwaves. Most notably, he presented Radio 4’s Something Understood, returning to questions of faith, morality and spirituality that had preoccupied him since his student days.

Honoured with the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Padma Bhushan in 2005, Tully’s relationship with India was profound and enduring. He made Delhi his home, embraced its spiritual traditions, and wrote extensively about the country he loved with both affection and honesty.

With his passing, journalism loses one of its most steadfast practitioners — a storyteller who believed in truth without theatrics, courage without spectacle, and compassion without compromise. His legacy remains a guiding light for all who see journalism not merely as a profession but as a calling.

I will miss Tully the way one misses the great seniors — those rare figures whose presence shapes not just one’s career but one’s understanding of the world. Tully Sahab was more than a celebrated journalist or a bestselling author; he was an institution, a moral compass, and a living embodiment of integrity, warmth, and deep human compassion.

Across India, Pakistan, and the wider South Asian region, his voice was not merely recognisable — it was foundational. For millions, the BBC was Mark Tully. His calm, unmistakable cadence carried authority without a hint of arrogance, empathy without sentimentality, and a clarity that never diluted the truth. His reportage defined how the world saw the subcontinent for decades, and his storytelling set a standard that few have ever matched.

To me, he was unfailingly kind — a mentor in the truest sense. He offered guidance without imposing, encouragement without flattery, and support without ever making it feel like a favour. His understanding of Kashmir, my own journalistic terrain, was profound. Very few outsiders grasped the region with the depth he did, and even fewer approached it with his sensitivity, fairness, and refusal to simplify a place that resists simplification.

His resignation from the BBC on July 10, 1994, after three decades of service, was more than a professional decision. It marked the end of a particular era in global journalism — one defined by curiosity, humility, and a belief that stories must serve the public, not the institution.

His absence leaves a void that cannot be filled, yet his legacy continues to illuminate the path for those of us who still believe in journalism as a vocation rooted in truth and humanity.

One memory returns to me with particular clarity. On the icy morning of January 26, 1992, we walked together from 8 Pratap Park, then my office-cum-residence at Srinagar’s own Fleet Street toward City’s historic Lal Chowk. We were there to cover the hoisting of the Indian tricolour by Murli Manohar Joshi, then president of the Bharatiya Janata Party, marking the culmination of the Ekta Yatra — a symbolic assertion of national unity at a time when Kashmir was engulfed in turmoil.

Security was suffocating. Joshi had been flown in by military aircraft. The flag was unfurled under an extraordinary protective cordon. Among those present was Narendra Modi, then a young BJP organiser, closely involved in the logistics of the event..

Just hours earlier, news had broken that the Government of India had decided to confer the Padma Shri on Mark Tully. Someone at Lal Chowk asked him about the honour. With his trademark blend of humour and humility, he smiled and said, “Ab hum India ka ghulam ban gaya” — now I have become a slave of India. It was a line only he could deliver with such grace. Years later, he would receive the Padma Bhushan, a recognition that felt not bestowed but inevitable.

Tully was a devoted bhakt of Hanuman, and India was not just his workplace — it was his spiritual home. He embraced the country with an affection that was unmistakable, and it felt entirely fitting that he would spend his final years here and ultimately pass away on Indian soil. His life’s arc itself became a testament to the bond he shared with the land he chronicled so faithfully.

One image from his residence at 1 Nizamuddin East remains etched in my mind. Along the boundary wall facing the small lawn stood a vivid, red‑embossed depiction of Hanuman. It wasn’t merely decorative. It radiated a quiet strength, as though it watched over the home with a protective, guardian‑like presence. In many ways, it reflected something essential about Tully himself — steadfast, grounded, and deeply anchored in the spiritual rhythms of India.

My memories of that address are many, but the earliest remains the most vivid. In 1984, I went there to type out my application for the position of BBC’s Kashmir correspondent, using the typewriter of his deputy, Satish Jacob. I had no idea then how intertwined that building — and Tully himself — would become with my professional life.

Tully authored numerous books over his distinguished career, and his last work — a memoir of sorts — was, I’m told, in progress. I learned that the manuscript includes a reference to me: to my years as a BBC reporter in a region torn apart by violence, and to the way he stood by me despite the opposition and hostility I often faced. His support during those difficult times remains one of the most meaningful chapters of my professional life.