Every day on my way to the office, I pass by a Hospital. It’s not just any hospital. It’s the place where my brother spent his last days, fighting cancer with the same spirit he brought to everything in life. And every time I drive by, it feels like that building isn’t just a structure; it’s a bookmark. A reminder of all the pages we filled together.
Pages. Yes. The Book of Our Life.
We had the typical sibling relationship, growing up side by side, sometimes as allies, as rivals, fought like brothers do, fiercely and frequently. But we lived just as unflinchingly as any sibling. And even in those moments of stubbornness, there was this underlying current – a bond that no argument could break.
We shared so much not just memories, but books too. He had this infectious laugh, and I will never forget his burst-out reading - The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody by William Cuppy or Stories by Stephen Leacock. Together, we could bring the roof down with our laughter. And in some quiet moments, we would dive into the words of Khalil Gibran. It was a strange heady mix: satire, humour, absurdity, and profound philosophy.
This was the kind of our life's square, and he could move between that like a pro. I can still hear his laugh echoing when I hold those books and read those lines, the kind that leaves you wondering if the writer meant to be serious or funny.
Since our school days, we have seen almost all WW II, Western English, and Hindi movies. Once we brought the matinee theatre down with our laughter watching a movie - Mem Didi (1961) by Hrishikesh Mukherjee and its re-make by the same Director - Achha Bura (1983). In the first, there was Jayant a character, and in the second played by his son Amzad Khan.
A great fan of KL Saigal and Mukesh, he wouldn't step out for work until he listened to the last Saigal song at 8 a.m. sharp on Radio Ceylon. He believed if that Saigal's song Ek Bangala Bane Nyara, when played, set his day for the better.
And that’s how he was – someone who could find humour and meaning in the same breath. He was a reader, a writer, a poet, a keynote speaker, a great organiser, a great cook and a foody.
He was not just my buddy but all his nephews and nieces. When they were toddlers, he would be their horse, put them on his back, or shoulder, or take them for a long drive on his motorcycle. Always greet and feed them with varieties of sweets, and savouries, and tell them stories for a belly full of laughs. He would make Apple Paratha, Apple Sheera, and cook several other things. He was always their darling uncle.
And then one fine day, in the prime of his youth, and on top of his Bank job, he left everything and joined Vivekananda Kendra, Kanyakumari to pursue his pro bono social and spiritual aspirations.
He touched many lives during his time on this Earth through his vast spiritual knowledge, and dedication, extending moral, physical and monetary support to anyone in need.
And within 27 days of his diagnosis, he left this world. Too soon.
Then, there were times when I could have been better and more kinder to him. There were unfair moments, and things left unsaid. Life always has a way of leaving some things unresolved.
And if you’ve ever read Mitch Albom’s "For One More Day", you will understand when I say – what it would be like to have just one more day with him. I wouldn’t waste it on trying to explain or fix the past. I would sit next to him, massage his feet or head (kind of atonement), let him tell his jokes, and we laugh together. Once again.
And then, when I was alone and sitting at the dining table, sipping tea or having food, I could feel his presence. The same seat, that familiar grin, a cup of tea in his hand and sharing anecdotes. He was the kind of person who could crack a joke at the drop of a hat. He had this knack for making even the most ordinary day feel brighter.
I think that’s what loss teaches you – appreciating the small and ordinary moments. Cherish them for life. When I drive past that hospital every day I don’t just remember his end; I remember the countless times we laughed, debated, and shared pieces of ourselves through books and stories.
Satish may not physically be here, but I carry him with me, in memories, thoughts that come uninvited, sometimes in dreams, and in the quiet recognition that maybe, just maybe, some conversations are still happening, even if not in the manner I expected.
So, if you are reading this story, and have someone you care about, let them know. Share the laugh, have the conversation, record it, and don’t wait for another day to say the things that matter.
The beautiful memories that you create will help you sail through the journey. That is life.
Thank you for letting me share this personal story with you today.
Love.
(This story remained untold, and recently, I read
's Prompt 'Sibling' which made me share this today.)
This is beautiful Sir!
I can relate to the just one more day....I wish!
What an invaluable and swashbuckling memoir .Deserves to be preserved for eternity. Tears welled up in my eyes recapitulating our 46 years of profound bondage starting on August 4th,1979 at Kalyani (WB) Expecting more precious gems from your inimitable vault of memory .Keep going my dearest Bro.