I lost an aunt last month and now an uncle. Both losses have chipped away at our family’s roots. Though we knew for some time that Bala Mama’s health was declining, the fact that he is no more will take time to sink in fully. He was a man of strong will who fought many personal and professional battles. Having lost his wife to cancer at a young age, he singlehandedly raised their two daughters. His career soared through sheer talent and hard work, and he endured, with remarkable fortitude, the loss of his elder daughter to the same illness that had taken his wife. Until the end, he fiercely guarded his independence. To such a man, death does not signify defeat—it is a period of rest, a respite after a life well lived.
Since yesterday afternoon, I’ve tried to recall my earliest memory of Bala Mama. From the hazy depths of recollection, one image rises—a well-dressed man in a safari suit, stern and focused, preparing for work. His sharp nose, piercing eyes, thin mustache, and neatly combed hair come vividly to mind. The setting: his spacious Worli home in Mumbai, overlooking the sea. Mama was a prominent figure at the Reserve Bank of India at the time, and that was the official residence allotted to him.
I remember his booming voice, commanding presence with a sing-song cadence, and impeccable English. His voice still echoes in my mind. One memory in particular resurfaces—his conversation about Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, a book he enjoyed rereading during an official visit to Germany. These are, no doubt, fragmented memories, but they remain vivid, shaped by time like a palimpsest, with layers of impressions hidden beneath one another.
From 1992 -1993, my memories become more distinct. It was Asha’s marriage, and Bala Mama was in Chennai to make arrangements. He was at the height of his professional career. Nalli Kuppusamishetty, the renowned Garment retailer in Chennai, graciously provided him with a white Contessa car for his local travel and purchases. Contessa was considered a luxury car at that time. I remember traveling with him in that roomy automobile and basking in the royal treatment he seemed to get wherever he went. I also remember his irritable nature and sharp tongue during that trip. He lectured a server at a local hotel on how to serve pooris with the right kind of masala. The paralyzed server stood transfixed, and everyone around us paused eating and heard Bala Mama for ten minutes on this topic. By the time he finished his lecture, I had eaten my tiffin, and he hadn’t yet touched his. And then again, in 2008, when I was in Mumbai to teach a class, Asha, Venky, and Mama – all of us – went hunting for a hotel for me to stay. We would have walked in and out of at least five hotels because Mama insisted on inspecting the rooms. Nothing met his approval. Until we had to politely tell Mama that we had to settle down on something soon, to which he reluctantly agreed but not without expressing his displeasure. That was Mama. The image that comes out of all the collective memories is the shape of a man who sought perfection in his actions, a mixture of kindness, love, and discipline, a man of deep intellect and firm opinions, a man who single-handedly forged a path for himself as a young man but never forgot his past or upbringing.
In 2022, Deepa sent me a copy of Mama’s memoir, a limited edition only for private circulation. Both his daughters had collected Mama’s journals over two or three decades and organized it in a book form with touching introductions from each of them. I read it in one go. Bala Mama’s prose was clear and precise. His love for his wife and family poured out of every page. True to Mama’s nature, the book was candid in its revelations from his point of view. There are portions of the book that have vivid sketches of various family members, their interactions, and how they individually and collectively played a role in shaping the trajectory of his life. If autobiographies are meant to be a mirror of a man’s soul, then Mama had laid bare his. I loved it. Each man has a unique story waiting to be told. Mama had the talent to write it down, and his daughters had the vision to publish it. I have the book in my library stocked along with some of my favorite books. The front cover with Susheela Mami’s picture often flashes before my eye as I scan the bookshelf. She was Mama’s life, his soul-keeper. When she passed away, a massive part of him went along with her.
The last time I saw Mama was at Keerthana’s wedding in Palani. Though in his early eighties at that time, he was as intellectually sharp as ever. We spoke briefly about my life in America, and he seemed content knowing I was doing well. In his later years, when his memory began to falter, my mother would tell me that he often asked about me when they met. I will never know why I lingered in his mind, but it is comforting to know that I did.
My mother had a special fondness for Bala Mama. She loved both her elder brothers equally, but Amma would go the extra distance to acquiesce with everything Bala said or did. She looked up to Bala Mama as a brother, as a protector who stood up for his sister’s independence and equality in an age when that wasn’t the norm. She had a soft corner for him.
In recent years, Bala Mama rarely visited anyone. He occasionally visited his sister’s homes. Mama became reclusive, especially after the loss of Asha. Venky, Shruti, Deepa, and Prasad visited regularly, and Uma, his caregiver, attended to him with great care and understanding. Mama was surrounded by people who cherished him in his twilight years, allowing him to maintain his dignity and independence until the very end.
My heartfelt condolences to Deepa and Venky’s families. It’s poignant to imagine that Deepa, high above the clouds, received the news of her father’s passing. Perhaps Mama chose that moment to meet his daughter near the heavens for one final farewell. One can almost imagine a snow-white cloud brushing against the airplane window as if offering her a symbolic kiss, a gentle assurance that he will always be with her. That is the solace of faith—it transforms absence into meaning and loss into love.
Bye Mama.