Oh Death, when is your death?

Those are the translated words of the famous Tamil poet and lyricist late Kannadasan. And that is what I am reminded of when three deaths in a row overtook Srishti-ites. But then comes a gentle reminder that life and death are as inseparable as day and night. We can only pray for their souls to rest in peace.

Sanjay Srivastava, B-104. Because of my closeness with Srivastava ji, Sanjay’s father, I had known Sanjay somewhat well. He is soft-spoken, polite, and measured each word before uttering it. That is, if something needed to be answered in 17 words, it would be just 17, neither 16 nor 18. So precise was his mental make-up. And, as I understood from Jaya during my meeting with the family early this week, that was his forte in all walks of life, unfortunately a short one.

During a morning walk I had introduced Sanjay to my elder son last year when he was here on a vacation. The chat lasted less than five minutes, but the impression, ever. I say this because  when I conveyed to him in USA of this sad news and said he might not be able to place Sanjay, he shot back. “No Appa, I distinctly remember him - tall and hefty like me. Correct? Also Sunita (daughter in law) had the best of interactions with his wife during our short vacation.” 

Shubhada Kelkar, B-402. I can’t claim close acquaintance with her. But during the chance meetings with her waiting for or in the lift, I had always observed her to be a pious, immaculate, and graceful lady. Meetings might be less, but not impressions - they were lasting.

Lalitha however had interactions with her almost every Friday at the Sahasranamam recitals in the Yoga room. When Lalitha returned, seldom did we settle down for lunch without sharing with me her prasadams and mentioning a word or two in praise of her and the way she conducted herself. 

Mr R. Krishnamoothy (RK to me), B-103. Srishti Day and my consequent write-ups on him brought us closer. He is given to casual strolls rather than brisk walks, and he knew of my preference for just the opposite. So, in the morning walks he would let me overtake him, and in the evenings we would take a stroll together before settling down near the swimming pool bench for a chat, till the mosquitoes drove us back home.

Any mention of RK without his keyboard expertise will be something less. I always referred to him in my write-ups as Keyboard Krish. Once or twice I went to RK’s house to hum some old Hindi, Tamil, songs to the best of my poor ability, and hear him capture them and play them for me on the keyboard - Aaja re aa jaa akhiyanum mein…, Tum na jaane kis jahan mein khogaye…, Konjum puraave…, Maasila Unmai cuddle…There was not even a single song where he fumbled. Fantastic. We grew so close that one fine morning he rang my doorbell, and when I opened, I found him holding his 75-year old family harmonium. “Come on both of you, before I leave for US in fifteen days, I will teach you the basics, write notes of some well known Tamil and Hindi songs. You practice them. Don’t give up. When I return from USA after six months, I would like to hear you both play with ease all these songs.” Alas, it worked somewhat with Aunty; not with me. And we returned the harmonium with our deepest apologies. 

My last meeting with him was when I was packing for my relocation to Kanakapura Road. My elder son had handed me down a very good original CD collection of some Western classics like Beethoven, Mozart, and others like James Last, Paul Mauriat, Saxaphonist Kenny G, Celine Dion… I thought the best person to treasure these should be RK. So I went with a bagful of these and knocked at his door. He opened and I handed him. He looked at them with utter surprise as though he was looking just for these. But checked himself and asked me. “Are you sure you want to part with this excellent collection?” “Yes.. see you later,” I said and left in a hurry as I had too many packings to complete. Had I known that that was going to be our last meeting, I would have spent some more time with him.

This morning it was consoling when we talked to Hema that she was bold and able to brave the loss. Alas, it was only for two minutes, thereafter she broke down unconsolably, and we tried hard to pacify her. 

RK, believe me, I will miss you. Yes, I shall recall here once again, also your favourite lyricist Kannadasan’s words, “Chaave, un chaavu eppo,” (Oh Death, when is your death?)

V V Sundaram

(formerly B-703)