June 2, 2021

Recently my wife and I were talking about what lunch we took to school. For the life of me, I can’t remember what I took, or whether I took anything at all. But I can describe in great detail the marmalade sandwiches Isaac brought for his lunch, and my mouth still waters when I remember Adi’s ham sandwiches. There was a long queue for sharing lunch with him, so probably my chance to share Adi’s lunch came only once a month or so; and all this was nearly 50 years ago. Nevertheless, I can bring up a memory of the look, feel, smell and texture of those sandwiches. 

My thoughts are full of Adi over the last few days ever since I heard that Adi, or Bhai Aditya Bir Singh, is in hospital, on ventilator support, and unlikely to make it. When I think of Adi, I only remember his amazing energy and lung power. Its hard to imagine that the disease has taken away his lungs and he needs support to breathe. It is difficult to accept. And now he has gone.

We were together since we were about 6 years old. He was one of the bigger and more energetic kids in class. He was bigger than almost anyone, but not a bully. But if I remember right, he could be counted on to kick the bullies. He had a big shoe size. Isaac tells me once the two of us together  managed to hold on to him in Kabaddi. 

I don’t remember, but I know why this has stayed in Isaac’s memory. It sounds like a big achievement. Often things Adi started became a trend with all others doing the same. Did he decide (for all of us) that boys should not speak with the girls in grade 3 or so? It took me years until I ever spoke to a girl after that. Or at least, one couldn’t be seen speaking to any girl in school. 

I don’t remember ever talking to him about what he liked to do, or what he wanted to become. No discussing the past or the future. No bullshit ever from him. No pussyfooting, either. He would say it as it was, whether you liked it or not. We never connected as adults; he was in the US for college. We just moved in different circles. When we did meet as adults, I don’t remember him speaking about himself. So I really did not know him at all in these many years after school.

At the remembrance meeting on zoom, I heard (from his nieces) how smart he was. He spoke many languages, and had a library of books he had read. I got the impression of a refined aristocrat: he took care of his parents, enjoyed the good things in life, was curious, learnt for the sake of learning, and delighted in intellectual discussions with interested youngsters. 

In school, however, I don’t recall many displays of intellectual ability. He was not recognized as a maggu—he did well enough in his studies, but I don’t recall him coming first or anything like that; no, Adi was too refined a person to unnecessarily bring attention to himself. 

But learning about his vast knowledge makes me recall a quiz where he should have been in my place. 

You see, a week before this inter-house quiz, there was a test by a magazine where there was a general knowledge test. I happened to get a prize. Perhaps that was why our house master, Mr.\ Shukla, chose me as the third member of the team to represent Tagore house. Adi was not considered and did not volunteer either. We probably did not do very well; I don’t recall any question I knew the answer to. But I do remember there was one question I thought I knew. I confidently went up and answered it. I was wrong! The quiz master offered the question to the audience. And who else but Adi got up and answered it. Correctly! He should have been on stage in my place. 

I feel really bad that Adi is no more. He left much ahead of his time — nearly half his life unlived. And so soon after Uncle. I don’t know what to say, dear Aunty, Shon, Manpriya, and all of his family. I hope you find the strength to bear these unbearable losses. 

It is no consolation, but he will not be forgotten. When we school friends meet, we will remember Adi, what he said when so and so said that, the interesting times we had, and the pranks we played. We will remember him; we will tell the stories of these times to our children. Adi has gone, but he will not be forgotten.