Taori sir and bhabhi. Forty years back, an arranged marriage brought you together. Sir, you joined the department of Biochemistry in a medical school that was beginning to take roots in Sevagram. Bhabhi chose to be a homemaker. Your children went to the same medical school where you served as a faculty for three decades and half. Gopal grew to become a physician, married an ophthalmologist, specialised in critical medicine and flew to Australia where he recently became a consultant in intensive care. Anuradha, Gopal’s sister, became an Obstetrician and married a neurosurgeon. Now that you had married off your children, and their careers were shaping well, you decided to divide your time for them between India and Australia. You doted on your grandchildren, baby sitting for Anuradha’s daughter all through her three years of post graduation, ensuring that the stress and responsibilities of motherhood does not affect her ward work and academics.

Only a day before you parted us, you had invited relatives and few loved- ones for a house- warming ceremony. For decades, you lived in a small house on campus that you had painstakingly built in late eighties. Now our dad needs a bigger home. And a bigger car. And traditional sherwani to grace the occasion. Gopal and Anuradha surprised you and bhabhi by presenting gift after gift that day, and you began to treasure every happening of that day deep within your heart.

That indeed was a great day for you, a day that filled your heart with bliss that begged description. A sense of contentment that you could barely conceal. A feeling of fulfilment that was so palpable. The pride of sharing children’s accomplishments was visible on your faces. Merriment reverberated through your new home. Your social and family responsibilities over, you were looking forward to opening a new chapter in life.

The new chapter carried only one page, titled tragedy.

An important task in your life accomplished, you decided to drive back home. Little did you know that not you but the death was driving your car. And as your fragile car collided with a truck, within a fraction of a second, the destiny took you both to another world. Only a few seconds before, you must have relived a happy happening with bhabhi. A few seconds later, we saw you on the front seats of your care- side by side- still and serene.

The death you embraced was cruel: treacherous and terrible. Dozens of friends quickly rushed to rescue you as soon as they heard the news- most of them could not stand the ghastly site. Hundreds of well wishers and family friends gathered at the mortuary where your bodies were dissected.

As per Hindu traditions, your body was bathed and wrapped in white clothes; bhabhi was dressed in red bridal clothes. Scriptures were read from the Vedas and Bhagavad Gita. The funeral procession started from your ancestral home and passed through the main street of the town. It was the biggest funeral procession Pulgaon had ever seen. Hundreds of people came from Wardha to mourn your death. And as pyres were lit, throats chocked, voices broke and eyes welled up.

Good bye, Sir. Good bye, bhabhi. Whenever we shared our joy with you, your eyes would light up. Whenever we dropped in at your home, you greeted us with warmth and love. When you were away in Australia, you must have exchanged countless emails with me- sharing almost everything that you experienced down under. It was only a fortnight ago, that you and bhabhi spent an evening with us- talking about your new home, the arrival of a newborn in the family and Gopal’s success stories. You invited us for the house- warming ceremony at Nagpur, reminded us again a day before that you wanted us to attend the ceremony. How sorry do we feel that we couldn’t make it. To Amrita you were a gifted teacher, who passionately taught carbohydrate metabolism to graduate medical students. You instilled in her a deep interest in Biochemistry so much so that we always joked that she might end up doing MD in Biochemistry.

When a spouse dies, the surviving partner finds it difficult to cope with the loss. A legacy of loneliness haunts the survivor; an eerie emptiness envelops the life of the bereaved spouse. Perhaps you both didn’t want to colour your life with these negative hues. We will live through each other- we will never be separated, you must have made a pact. When we have to go, you must have secretly thought, we should go together. Very few couples are lucky enough to start and end their journey together- from the time they take seven steps- saptapadi– round the sacred fire till their mortal remains are consigned to fire. Sir, as was almost your second nature, you couldn’t wait for anything- not even for death. And as always, you wanted bhabhi to accompany you, even when you chose to part this world. We salute your commitment to live together- and to leave together.