There are lives that do not seek recognition, yet they leave behind a quiet radiance that outlives the years. My father — whom we all lovingly call Babuji — was one such man. His life was not marked by possessions or proclamation, but by a luminous simplicity. He lived by values that did not waver with circumstance — integrity, humility, compassion, and self-respect. In an age of noise, he believed in silence; in times of haste, he practiced patience; and in a world often guided by ambition, he lived by conscience.
As I look back today, memory comes not as a torrent but as a soft stream — flowing through familiar rooms, carrying fragments of his laughter, the rhythm of his footsteps, the calm in his gaze. Each recollection brings with it the fragrance of home, of mornings when his quiet discipline ordered the day, and of evenings filled with the unspoken assurance of his presence. There was something sacred about his simplicity — as if he had found the rare art of being content in truth alone.
To remember him is to walk once again through that inner landscape where love and duty met without conflict. He believed that goodness was not a matter of display but of constancy — the everyday courage to do what is right, without seeking applause. He was a man of few words, but those words, once spoken, stayed. His life itself was his longest sentence, composed with honesty and restraint, and punctuated with acts of kindness.
We, his children, learned from him not through instruction but through observation. He taught us that dignity lies not in titles, but in conduct; that faith is not ritual, but reverence; that the truest strength is often the gentlest. His example continues to live within us — not as an inherited memory, but as a living conscience. Each time we act with fairness, show empathy, or stand for what we believe is right, we find ourselves, in some quiet way, continuing his work.
Over time, memory changes its shape. In the beginning, it is a tender ache, a wish to return to what is lost. But as the years pass, memory becomes a kind of presence — invisible yet deeply felt. The house of his memory still stands, not in bricks and mortar, but in values, in stories, and in the unbroken thread of love that binds generations. His spirit lives not only in what he built, but in what he inspired — in the calm assurance that goodness never goes out of fashion, and decency never loses relevance.
In this moment when I remember him with such intensity, a thought flashes through my mind. Why shouldn’t I write a book about him? And why I alone? Why shouldn’t all the sons of this extra-ordinary man join hands to manifest their thoughts and remembrance as an enduring testimony of his legacy and the lasting gratitude of his children. This book will be both a tribute and task — to preserve the narrative of his life, to gather the pearls of memory before time scatters them, and to pass them forward as inheritance. For memory, if not tended, fades like an untended lamp. To remember Babuji is, therefore, not only an act of love but a duty of gratitude — a promise to ensure that the light he kindled continues to burn.
In writing about him, let us not wish to create a monument of nostalgia, but a mirror of remembrance. His life was not about grandeur, but grace, not about success, but substance. He showed us that one could live meaningfully without noise, influence without authority, and lead without proclaiming leadership. The world often remembers those who change history; but there are also those who change hearts, who restore our faith in the quiet power of goodness. He was one of them.
And let this work begin — as a homage of his sons, a family’s offering, and a human effort to hold on to what truly endures. Through stories, reflections, and remembrances, let us trace the many facets of a man who lived fully by the simplest creed — to be good, to be just, to be kind. His journey was his teaching, his silence his sermon, and his life his message.
If love could take the shape of a memory, and memory the form of light, then it is this light that continues to guide us. Babuji may have stepped beyond the visible horizon, but his presence remains — in the order of our days, in the clarity of our choices, and in the moral music of our hearts.
This book, then, will not merely be a collection of recollections. It will be a vow — that his flame will not fade; that the story of his life will continue to warm and illumine those who come after us.
scribo ad LX 