India, June 15 -- I have to admit I was surprised. I knew he was a celebrity. On the subject of tigers, he was a world authority. His 40 books and his BBC series, Land of the Tiger, were clear testimony. But the newspaper coverage of his death suggested a level of admiration and respect I had not anticipated. It proved he was considered a truly special person - in many ways, an icon. Thus, Valmik Thapar's death revealed a legacy and a reputation his family had probably not appreciated. Perhaps even understood. Now, belatedly, we have realised the enormous impact he had as a conservationist and as an authority on tigers. He was the star of the present generation of our family. In many ways, Valu, as we knew him, was like the tigers he loved. He was powerful and gruff. He was a man of few words but capable of large warm gestures. And his appearance was striking. Big and broad, with a most beguiling smile and large twinkling eyes. Valu's laugh could bring everything to a sudden halt before the room spontaneously laughed with him. Though I have known him all my life, I really got to know him in my 20s. I was of the age when you think you know more than you do. On a holiday in India with a dear friend, Claire Winterschladen, Valu suggested we visit Ranthambore. "If you haven't seen a tiger, you haven't lived", he teased and taunted us. "I'll take you there and you'll have the time of your lives." He was right. By day, we drove in jeeps, Valu often at the wheel, following tiger pug marks and sighting several of them - often just a few feet away. At night, by a bonfire on the banks of a lake, we drank rum and listened to his tales. Valu's stories of tigers and the jungle, told with his inordinate sense of drama, were riveting. But what I didn't realise - although clearly Valu knew - is what those days in Ranthambore would mean. It was my first holiday in a jungle. The first time I'd vacationed with a girlfriend. The first time there was no parental authority or guardian to watch over and ensure I didn't step out of line. But Valu knew this would be the case. That's why he was so keen we visit Ranthambore. He was doing his bit to help a cousin grow up! In later years, when I was a journalist, he would often invite me to dinner and open my eyes to hidden aspects of stories I was following or to interpretations I had not thought about. Whenever he began a sentence with the words "have you thought of this", I knew I had not. At first, I didn't realise that he was gently but cleverly guiding me. He did it unobtrusively. Sometimes, he would invite people to educate me. On other occasions, he would call to comment on an interview I'd done. Once or twice, he would alert me to a story in a newspaper he thought I may have overlooked. On each occasion his advice was invaluable. He wasn't a politician, but he had an unerring feel for what would attract attention. He instinctively knew what would excite curiosity and could easily distinguish it from what was of interest only to the elites of Delhi's drawing rooms. But Valu was also my fairest critic. Others may have chafed at his comments, but I knew he had watched what I'd done and thought carefully before speaking. The one lesson I immediately accepted - but never fully mastered - was his advice not to let my voice rise when I'm speaking. "There's no need to let your excitement show", he said. "The content of what you say should be sufficient to capture the audience's attention. Keep your voice at an even pitch." I rarely did. Now, every time I can't control my vocal chords and my voice rises up the register, I will remember Valu's sage advice. And that means I will be remembering him a lot!...