THE relentless drum of rain. It's the first thing that greets me as I step out of the lift on the sixth floor of Balai Berita, Bangsar. Its heavy cadence fills the air, weaving through the stillness of the rooftop, where the canteen — my meeting place with Francis Kochoppan — awaits.
The soft-spoken production editor is only days away from saying farewell to a place he's called home for nearly three decades. He arrived here on Jan 2, 1996, as a fresh-faced cadet journalist and now, nearly 30 years later, he's preparing to bid his farewell.
The rain continues to lash down fiercely, and the sky above is a solemn grey as I make my way towards the canteen. It almost feels as if the heavens themselves are mourning Francis' imminent departure.
When I enter, a figure rises from the table. Clad in a heavy jacket, likely a shield against the office's Arctic air, Francis' expression is serene, his lips curved in the faintest of smiles. Colleagues often speak of his unshakable calmness; the way he remains unfazed even in the chaos of the subbing desk. Despite the chill in the air, his handshake is warm. We settle in after ordering hot tea, and I start our meeting, mumbling: "I'm sorry to hear you're leaving."
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He responds with a slight shrug of the shoulders. Tone measured but sincere, he says: "Well, it's time. My son's 16 now. It's been my wife who's done the running around. I don't want to miss out on his life."
The rain beats down even harder, and I find myself leaning in, trying to catch his soft-spoken words. Just then, a deep rumble of thunder shakes the air, and we pause, momentarily lost in nature's symphony around us.
NEW CHALLENGE
In this picture taken in early 1996, Francis is seen with David Christy, who is now NST's executive editor of production.
"I started with the New Straits Times in 1996 as a cadet journalist," Francis reiterates, before adding that he wasn't alone in his first steps. He and another of the NST's stalwarts, David Christy, now the executive editor of production, began on the same day.
The pair walked into their respective interviews that would determine their futures, facing a three-person panel that included M.A. Razman (Ratan Singh), the late Tony Francis and Anselm Rozario from the human resource department. Their journey at the company would start with a bond forged in those early moments, a shared sense of uncertainty about the future.
Before joining the NST, Francis had spent a year at The Star newspaper. But he was drawn to a new challenge, seeking a position as a sub-editor at NST. Shares Francis: "When I joined the desk, it dawned on me that almost everybody there had been with the company for a long time — nobody had clocked in less than 20 years!"
The new hires found themselves among seasoned veterans. "Not everyone was convinced that we'd last that long," recalls Francis, chuckling.
The most junior of them all was a lady called Lam, who'd joined a year before. Lam, who's now David's wife, became their unexpected guide.
"The seniors weren't really keen to take us under their wing, thinking that we were only going to be there for a short while. So, we had to fall back on Lam. She was really helpful," shares Francis, adding that over time, the seniors saw that the new blood wasn't there just for a short stint and they began to open up.
But Francis' roots were planted long before his time at the NST, deep in the small town of Batang Berjuntai, now renamed Bestari Jaya, Selangor, where life unfolded at a slower pace.
"There's one side of me that not many people know about," he says, chuckling slightly, as he hints at his formative years.
CHILDHOOD IDYLL
Francis (front, left), his siblings and niece at the back of their house in the 1970s.
Life in Batang Berjuntai was simple. The small town didn't offer much in terms of organised activities, but that didn't stop him, his younger brother and their friends from making the most of their days.
"We could play football and traditional games like marbles and spinning tops," he reminisces. There was always something to do. "We'd also make our own catapults and see whose stone would fly the furthest," he laughs, eyes creasing with mirth.
Nearby, a small river wound its way along the edge of town, a place where nature seemed to embrace the boys' boundless energy. "It was like a forest area, kind of," recalls Francis, the fourth of five siblings, adding: "We liked to play there. There was this little wooden bridge that we'd jump into the river from."
Francis' late father at the counter desk in his shop.
While Francis and his siblings were busy with their games, their parents were busy running their small family-owned business — BB Supplies, or Batang Berjuntai Supplies. His shopkeeper-father had his hands full, but Francis saw the love and care that went into it.
"My father was running the shop, and my mum was also very much involved, playing the role of number two," he shares.
The newspaper stand outside his father’s shop where the non-subscriber copies would be put up for sale.
The shop catered to the local community, but in those early years, it was the British planters who were the primary customers. "It was the era of the British planters, so my dad's shop stocked a lot of the things they liked," recalls Francis.
Over time, he became familiar with brands like Skippy peanut butter, Australian Golden Glory honey and Coleman's mustard — staples that seemed to define that era.
"My dad also had a liquor licence," shares the (now) 60-year-old, adding that through that licence, he became acquainted with whiskey and brandy brands. But the shop wasn't just for the British planters; it served the labourers too, who worked in the nearby estates.
"My father also stocked cheaper options for the estate workers," he adds.
School had its own set of challenges. It was there that he faced the age-old question: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"In primary school, you had these report cards, and the teacher would ask you to list down your three favourite occupations," remembers Francis.
"Everyone else would write down 'doctor,' 'lawyer', or 'engineer'... some even put down 'teacher'.
"But for me, I had 'teacher', 'lawyer', and then, for my third one, I put down priest!"
His first holy communion in the mid-1970s.
Noticing my expression of bewilderment, the usually composed man lets out a hearty chuckle before elaborating: "I enjoyed going to church when I was young."
"My mum would tell us biblical stories before bed. It became like a bedtime ritual, and I always looked forward to it."
But growing up without a television made those childhood years feel even more vivid.
Shot taken from the top-storey window of the Batang Berjuntai shophouse where Francis and his family lived. On the left is the local council building, where a television set was kept for public viewing.
Recalls Francis: "The only place for everyone to watch was at the local council office opposite our shop. There was a TV inside a cage, with a timer set. Around 6pm, the TV would come on. But there was no remote control to change the channels, so you just end up stuck on TV1. This was in the 70s."
Continuing, he shares: "We only had a short time to watch. Unfortunately, the good series would only start from 7.30pm. My younger brother and I would sneak out and squat in front of the TV because we didn't have stools."
But just as he and his brother would get comfortable, the unmistakable swoosh of his father's cane would signal it was time to run home!
MUSIC MAN
With the school hockey team in the early 1980s. Francis is standing third from left.
After completing high school, Francis found himself drawn to music. "I had a deep interest in music," he recalls, eyes dancing. During his visits to Kuala Lumpur, which were a rare and exciting escape from the quiet of Batang Berjuntai, he'd often wander into the handful of shopping malls that dotted the city.
"There were only a few malls back then — Ampang Park shopping centre, Pertama Complex, Sungei Wang Plaza and KL Plaza, now Fahrenheit."
It was in these bustling shopping centres that Francis first encountered something that would shape the course of his next journey.
"At the concourse of Sungei Wang, there'd often be events happening," he remembers, adding: "There were emcees and DJs managing the events, and I was fascinated by it."
He didn't just want to watch them; he wanted to be one of them.
Testing his mobile deejaying unit set before a birthday party in the mid-1980s.
As mobile DJ-ing units began to rise in popularity, Francis saw an opportunity. "I saved up some money, bought the equipment for a mobile unit, and started doing birthday shows and events."
It wasn't long before he found himself connected to a DJ at the Royal Selangor Club.
"My sister introduced me to a guy who was DJ-ing there, a Singaporean," he recalls.
"He let me come and jam with him when he was on duty."
Watching him work, Francis soaked up everything he could.
At the time, there were only a handful of established players in the scene — names like Patrick Teoh and the Music Machine and a UK-based company called Duchess, who were stationed at Hotel Malaya.
"They handled promotions at some of the bigger malls, including KL Plaza," he recalls.
But as with everything, change was inevitable. The mall management, perhaps looking for a cost-effective alternative, decided to try something different.
"They put out an ad for an independent DJ," Francis explains. He responded, went through the audition, and was asked to perform a live test.
"That weekend, they had a promotion, and they wanted me to handle it. After that, they'd decide."
The audition must have gone well, because Francis found himself taking over most of the mall's promotions. He quickly became a fixture in the city's music scene, moving from one event to the next.
But it wasn't an easy road.
"My late dad wasn't too happy about it," he says, adding solemnly: "He didn't think there'd be a future in the nightlife industry. He asked me to get out of it."
JOURNEYING ON
Francis' eldest brother entertaining a visiting nephew from out of town at the shop counter in the 1980s.
Francis' path to the media industry wasn't linear.
"My dad had a nephew who was a lawyer," he recalls. "He suggested I work with him at his legal firm, and from there, I could study law."
So, he joined as an apprentice clerk, assisting with case preparations and research. He learned the ropes quickly, but soon realised the pay wasn't enough to support his law studies. So, he moved to a larger firm in KL, working in the library section, helping lawyers with research.
Then, a law journal based in Taman Melawati opened up an editorial position.
It's certainly been a journey to remember for the soft-spoken Francis.
"With my research experience, I decided to give it a shot," Francis says. After a test on legal cases, they offered him the role. It became his first long-term job and there, he honed his editorial skills for four years.
Next came the Asia Pacific Defence Review, a defence magazine. "They promised access to events like the Farnborough Airshow," he says. "I was excited to cover these big events, but in the end, only the local LIMA airshow happened, and non-editorial staff went."
Disenchanted, Francis decided to pursue journalism instead, moving to The Star.
It was during his time at the defence magazine that he met his wife Anne, a secretary back then. Their connection was immediate, but life pulled them apart.
"In 1996, she went on to work as a stewardess for Malaysia Airlines," Francis shares, before adding fondly: "Years later, we rekindled our relationship and eventually married in 2007."
PASSION AND DEDICATION
Looking forward to the future.
As the minutes tick, I ask Francis to reflect on his long career and share the things that have truly stood out for him. A pause, and he replies: "The recognition we received from our bosses kept us motivated to push ourselves further."
Over the years, his dedication paid off, earning him promotions from assistant chief sub to chief sub, and eventually, production editor. Through the many regime changes at the NST, Francis learned the importance of adaptation. "Each new regime brought fresh ideas, so we had to reorient ourselves."
His early days in journalism, admits Francis, were challenging. "There were times I'd chase three stories, and none of them would make it to print," he says. "It was frustrating, especially when you thought one of them was solid."
Despite these setbacks, he remained determined, driven by the need to prove that with consistency, anyone could survive in the industry.
"My motto was always, come what may, I must deliver," says Francis.
He admits, however, that today's journalists seem less eager to dig deeper.
"They wait for the press release, process it, and call it a day," he muses, adding: "We didn't wait for stories to come to us — we went out and found them."
The secret to enduring loyalty lies in passion, believes Francis. "It's the passion that gets you up every day, excited to do what you do. As he nears retirement, he finds himself reflecting on the small, daily rituals of his career.
"I'm really going to miss coming to 31, Jalan Riong every day," concludes Francis, wistfully.
Just then, a thunderous roar shakes the air, momentarily silencing our conversation. It's as if the heavens themselves are honouring this quiet, poignant farewell — a man who has embodied loyalty in a world where it's increasingly rare, marking the end of an era in the most fitting way.
