He had such a large presence that the entire place would come alive when he was around. His voice, his laughter and the warmth he exuded inspired everybody with the desire to live, to act and carry on whatever the odds. In short, the very walls resonated with his being. He was tied up with everything in his life—his family, friends, the ancestral village where with his modest savings he built a small temple.
The temple was not only a place of worship but also a sort of social circuit where the village folk sat in the veranda overlooking the swaying palms and rice fields, talking of sundry stuff, primarily of their hardships and deprivations. He stepped into their little world with words of commiseration, taking them to his heart and helping them wherever he could. Some needed money, some needed medical attention and others felt talking to him helped them forget their pain. The youngsters who did well in school received a pat and those who did not, a word of admonition. He instituted scholarships for the well-deserving among them at the local school.
He was also upfront sometimes telling people the truth they did not see about themselves and left them to introspect. But there was no rancour and he did not carry animosities or grudges with him. He had a natural air of innocence and boundless optimism. He would often say that human beings, the highest order of creation, are the only life form gifted with powers of thinking and therefore we should not only think of ourselves but think of others too and contribute something to the less privileged. In that he would say lay salvation. “We all require devotion to something more than ourselves for our lives to be meaningful”. He certainly found his meaning.
Then one day, in the midst of so many plans and dreams he envisioned for himself and others, he passed away leaving his family and friends in stunned grief. In fact it surprised many that someone so cheerful and active with good health should go away so suddenly. Death does not of course offer itself to speculation. “The moving finger writes and having writ” has moved on, taking in its stride, as it does, life’s many tragedies. He has now become a fond reminiscence in conversations and before long he will become a memory. But the ineffable sadness of the event will always be there for all who knew him well.
We console ourselves: “Every spark returns to darkness/ Every sound returns to silence/ And every flower returns / to sleep with the Earth.”