And Then, The Cashew Tree Shed a Dozen Leaves

Signing Off, to Stay On forever

Every evening after school, as we (my sister and I) walked close by you as you propelled us toward the 6 pm train that would take us home, you narrated to us the day’s happenings around the world in a nutshell. From Rajiv Gandhi’s first press conference as Prime Minister to Sir Richard Attenborough’s epic  re-narration of the Gandhian tale, you kept us engaged with all that was happening around us in a world we never knew in full.

More than the Pythagoruses, Lincolns, Grays, or Edasserys who played to full potential in the class rooms, your narrations of the world’s tale triggered the spark that led us to explore more, each day, every minute.  Stopping in between for a hot cup of tea and snack before the railway station showed up yonder, you provided us with much food for thought, before the train finally chugged on to the platform where we waited.

Once settled comfortably inside the train, you gave us the latest Amar Chitra Katha or the Balarama to imbibe, and that was where the mythical beings and the social reformers performed in front of us. Anant Pai soon turned out to be my hero, and you made it a point that I graduate to Rajaji on a solid base of Uncle Pai. Karna, Bhima, Duryodhana , Kunti, Draupadi, and later on Panditji, Patel, and the Mahatma checked into the sanctorum of my mind, offering companionship whenever I wanted.  

Later on, after the pre-degree hurdle swayed to stoop, you told me how the world around was dancing to the Engineering tune. But, when I uttered journalism, your eyes lit up, as if slamming the stamp of approval on my decision.  That was when you actually donned the role of a hero to me.

The treasure trove that stored the hundreds of back issues of the Illustrated Weekly of India was thrown open in front of me to explore and excavate. Along with them came Readers Digest and fresh issues of an awesome magazine called the Frontline. From Dharkar to Nandy to Ram, many stalwarts wrote in an amazing language that enticed my soul. I always knew you enjoyed it when I strived to emulate them.  I was proud, so proud to be doing what I wanted to do, and your silent approval of whatever I was doing helped me do better in the world of news writing, thus spurring me to have a go at everything that took me to the path of good journalism.

Whenever we got to sit or travel together, you told me tales of how the wise men changed the world with their simple lives. You narrated stories of Mahatma Gandhi’s experiments with truth, how one frail old man walked so fast and alone to extinguish the pride of an empire that never saw the sun set on its terrain until then.

You kickstarted my thoughts on how Hinduism stood tall as a unique way of life than a religion where men faked the existence of a 33-crore member pantheon.  You reminded me of how even the gods were classified as Class One and Class Two by the many men and women who always looked at bronze, concrete and stone idols as profit-machines. You warned me against men and women who posed as God Incarnate so that they can dupe everyone who had a wavering mind.

You read, chewed and digested whatever text that was thrown at you, and emerged out of the heaps of letters with a clear opinion that was uniquely yours. You even told me how vulnerable the concept of astrology was, by listing down examples from the Ramayana.  That, in fact, prompted me to look at age-old beliefs with a critical point of view. You made it a point to prod me to lend my eyes and ears to great men who spoke sense. You watched and listened to the Bhartadarshanam series of Thuravoor Viswambharan with amazing regularity, to dissect and explain to me later what the learned man said and how to interpret things. The manner in which you adhered to ideals that were sane made you someone worth looking up to. You know, I always did.

The manner in which sacred groves were pulled down to make way for concrete temples pained you and you never hid your ire. You slammed the ones that wore vermilion and saffron to pose as messengers of celestial beings and told them how bad they irked you. You tried to tell them the significance of Hinduism and the contributions of the Hindu way of life in the making of India, long before saffron turned out to be a community mascot.

Significantly enough, you never preached. You acted the way you spoke and believed. You never shied away from calling a trident a trident. You even went to the extent of believing the trident was better in Lord Shiva’s hands than in the arms of a saffron clad kar sevak. You never stopped short of leaving the novice in me amazed and yearning for more. You sketched the way I thought, lived and wrote, minute after minute.  You guided me through the maze of life with your way of life.

My teacher, friend, guide, you continued to be. Every time I came home to be beside you, you told me something new.  One day, you told me everyone has to die someday and when the soul leaves a body, what remains is just useless junk and there is no point whatsoever in mourning over a dead body. You even reminded me of the Bhagawad Gita verse that said a soul leaving a body is akin to how a man changes his soiled clothes to wear a fresh new one.  You made life look so easy and simple.

The day you made me sit beside you to warn me against cutting down a full grown tree to burn your soulless body is still fresh in my mind. You never wanted to kill a tree to gift yourself heaven. When you wanted your earthly remains to be confined to flames with just a bunch of firewood that a firewood vendor would sell for his livelihood, you made sure a tree was not cut down. 

As you now start your journey to a world unknown to me, tears rush to my eyes, blurring my vision. But then, I know you aren’t happy about that. For, you lived and died a happy man. You just do not want anyone to weep over your passing.

I wouldn’t want to say good bye. I never can. No one who knew you would want to either. You continue to inspire. Your way of bidding goodbye while in the midst of your daily routine, watching television just before sleep perched on your eyelids, was indeed unique. You always had your own unique style of doing things. In your passing away too, you made sure you had your own style.

Looking back at the night of March 18 gives me the shudders, as I realize I wouldn’t be sitting beside you listening to your anecdotes and tales of people who changed the world.  You wouldn’t be voicing your disagreement with the people that ruin lives and the environment anymore. As I come to terms with the fact that you aren’t beside me to tell me what is good and what is bad, I realize it is just your physical presence that is absent.  

I’ll never miss you, dear Acha. For, you continue to live within me, and I now have the privilege to call upon you anytime. I know you would be more than willing to walk up to my soul any time now and extend a hand  that I can hold on to forever. I can sense your presence around me now, more than ever before.