“If those whom we begin to love could know us as we were
before meeting them … they could perceive what they have made of us.” Albert Camus
In his 50 years,
Vijay refused to be cubbyholed. He was a writer, a playwright, a poet, a good
actor (mostly off stage), a bad singer, and an even worse dancer. He kept his
role of a corporate trainer but spiked it with generous dose of theatre and
creativity.
How can then one
even begin to comprehend the irony when his life now is so definitely contained
in between the years he came and went from this world?
It is too early,
too soon.
Through these
images I would like to share my memories of him which flit about knowing no
boundaries.
“Memory is
like that. With different people it assumes different shapes,” he wrote in his unpublished book, ‘One Kind of
Happiness’.
I choose to shape mine in a full moon,
drawing solace from the reflected sunshine.
This
floor-to-ceiling bookshelf was especially made for Vijay in his study in our
new house. He organized the shelf himself (a rare event considering being
organized was not his habit) though in no particular order much to my
consternation. He never worked in the study though, choosing the dining table
instead to do all his writing.
Vijay’s idea
of a holiday was a comfortable hotel room with the television on at all times,
except when the new Harry Potter series was out. Here two people read, no, consumed
‘…the Deathly Hallows’ in one go. That’s how Vijay inculcated the love for
reading in Dhruv since he was two. Reading stories out loud was almost a ritual
before bedtime.
Vijay loved
to eat and cook for others. In 2012 when he went to Pittsburgh on a Fulbright
Fellowship, he had practically opened an Indian eatery in his residence. The friends
he made there would often cook up some excuse or the other to drop by. He loved
making chana masala, jeera rice, chicken curry, and mushroom stir fry for them.
Once he even fried puris setting off the fire alarm!
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If he had had
his way, every weekend would have been a party in the house. In Pittsburgh, he
did just that. The fridge was always stocked and the door always open! Writers
and poets, lawyers and librarians to mill workers and managers, he entertained
an eclectic crowd. He had a knack to draw out stories of other people. ‘How
else will I write my books,’ was his justification.
