The news of Mangaldeo Ji’s passing has left me deeply saddened. Ever since I heard it, I have struggled with a simple question: how does one remember a man who was so much more than a teacher? A mentor, a guide, an inspiration—yes. But even these words somehow fall short.
For a while, I felt I should not write at all. Some relationships are too precious to be captured in words. Yet I also knew that silence would be a poor tribute. Gratitude, when it runs deep, seeks expression.
As I began writing, memories came rushing back.
I was barely eleven when I entered Netarhat School in 1964. I was allotted to a small hostel of just twenty boys, where Mangaldeo Ji was the House Master. For the next six years, until I left the school in 1970, he remained a constant presence in our lives. He lived in the hostel with his family, and what we experienced there was less a hostel than a Gurukul.
Life at Netarhat was unlike anything we had known. We learnt to make our own beds, clean our rooms, wash our clothes and utensils, rise before dawn, work with our hands, and respect discipline. We were being taught self-reliance long before we understood the meaning of the word.
Mangaldeo Ji taught us mathematics. But what he really taught us was how to live.
He awakened in us a love for forests and long treks, for adventure and theatre, for beauty, curiosity and quiet courage. Looking back after more than half a century, I realise these were never distractions from education; they were education itself. Mathematics was only one of the subjects he taught. The greater lesson lay in the kind of human beings he wanted us to become.
Those six years at Netarhat became the foundation of my life. Whatever discipline, resilience, simplicity and love of learning I possess today owe much to that extraordinary institution and to teachers like him who gave it its soul.
I remained in touch with him for many years after leaving school. Later, as happens in life, our paths drifted apart. We had no contact during the last two decades. Yet hearing of his passing has filled me with the same sense of personal loss that I might have felt half a century ago.
Perhaps that is the true measure of a teacher.
Our active association ended fifty-six years ago. Time has carried me through universities, public service, responsibilities and retirement. Life has changed beyond recognition. Yet my respect, affection and gratitude for Mangaldeo Ji have not diminished even a little. If anything, they have grown deeper with the passing years. Such enduring reverence cannot be demanded; it can only be earned.
Like all human beings, he had his imperfections. But we are not remembered because we were flawless. We are remembered because we left the world, and the people around us, better than we found them. By that measure, Mangaldeo Ji’s life was richly blessed. Hundreds of Netarhatians still carry within themselves something of his influence.
As I bid him farewell today, my heart is filled less with sorrow than with gratitude. I count it among the greatest blessings of my life that, at the age of eleven, I came under the care of a teacher like him.
He may no longer walk among us, but he continues to live—in the values he planted, in the lives he shaped, and in the memories he left behind.
Farewell, Shriman ji. Thank you for everything.
May your noble soul rest in eternal peace.
scribo ad LX 