A Gentle Life, Perfectly Lived                                                                                                            

 In memory of my father, Mr. M. K. Kaw                                                                   

October 28th, 2019 began like any other day — and yet it changed everything. We had travelled to Delhi for my niece’s wedding — the mehndi raat awaited that evening. Lunch was quiet: Mom, Dad, my brother (home from the US after seven years), my kids and me. Parkinson’s had slowed him, yes, but it hadn’t dimmed that inner grace that made even his silences luminous. Later, we heard a faint thud — he had fallen, as he sometimes did. We helped him up, thinking it was a small everyday stumble. He rested, asked us to stay nearby, woke a few times for water, and then — just like that — his breathing changed.“Daddy, what happened?” I asked. He murmured something like — “The soul is elongating.” Within a minute, he was gone — peaceful, serene, in my brother’s arms. It felt as if life itself had waited for that perfect symmetry: my brother home after years, Mom and I by his side. Dignified, calm, complete — just as he had lived.

Six years on, not a single day passes without him strolling through my thoughts. Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t fade — it just learns better manners. It stops interrupting your day, but it sits quietly in a corner, watching you. I still catch myself thinking, I must tell Daddy about this!— a bit of news, a film, a silly joke — and then remember he’s listening from a different frequency now. He was my first teacher — the one who made me fall in love with mathematics, of all things. With him, numbers weren’t cold facts; they danced. Patterns, puzzles, little tricks — he made them feel so easy. He also rescued me from English homework disasters, patiently untangling my sentences and turning them into something readable. How proud he’d be to know that curiosity and words are still my favourite companions. His love for language eventually led to several books finding their way into print.

He was a born storyteller. Long drives from Shimla to Delhi became epic journeys — The Three Musketeers, The Mahabharata, David Copperfield — all retold in his voice, spiced with humour and the occasional drama. When I finally read the originals, I realised Dad’s versions were far more entertaining. He had that rare combination — intelligence, humility, wit — and he wore it lightly. His quiet competence spoke louder than words.

He had a musical heart, too. With his siblings, he could turn any evening into a concert — old Hindi melodies, laughter, teasing, all stitched together with love. Mom often joined in; their favourite was “Woh jab yaad aaye, bahut yaad aaye.” Even now, that song brings him back instantly — his gentle voice, his calm smile. He was a man of refined tastes: Bond and Hitchcock on his bookshelf, Poirot on TV, and an unshakable fondness for Mumtaz and Hema Malini. I smile at how much of him lives on in me — my love for detective stories, my curiosity, my preference for logic over drama. The whodunits are still my favourites.

He had a quiet fascination with the world beyond the visible — always searching for meaning, always drawn to what lay just out of sight. Our home overflowed with books by Ramakrishna, Vivekananda, and Ramana Maharishi — signs of his lifelong curiosity about life’s deeper truths. When he finally met his Guru, he found a peace that settled gently into him. I remember him once admitting, a little sheepishly, that he often fell asleep during meditation. The Guru laughed and said, “That’s not your path — yours is Karma Yoga.” That was Dad in essence — action before exhibition, faith without fuss, goodness practisedquietly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Being Kashmiri, our kitchen was never short of flavour, but when he gave up smoking, alcohol, and meat to live more sattvikly, he did it without preaching. His conviction was quiet but contagious — soon, many in the family followed.

I never heard him speak ill of anyone. To him, everyone seemed perfectly fine just as they were — each person walking their own path. There was a serenity in his gaze that made you feel seen but never judged. I’m convinced he was a yogi in a past life; his eyes gave him away. He cried when I left for college. He cried again on my vidaai day. So, when he wept that day, unguarded and unrestrained, it felt like love in its purest form — tender, selfless, utterly human. I would like to think I was his favourite child — though my brother would disagree. That was Dad’s magic — he made us both feel that way.

My love for walking — that’s another inheritance. In Shimla, every visitor was treated to a “short walk,” which usually meant several kilometres of huffing and puffing while Dad strolled ahead, hands clasped behind his back, humming. Later, when I returned home from college, I’d dream of sleeping in — only to be woken by him at 6 a.m. sharp for a walk in Nehru Park. Those weren’t just walks; they were moving classrooms — philosophy, family gossip, and gentle humour. The habit stuck. I still walk every day, though now with a coffee instead of his calm commentary. Somewhere, I think he still walks beside me, probably smiling at my shortcuts.

At home, Mom has kept his almirah exactly as he left it — shirts neatly folded, his watch beside them, photographs above. Sometimes I open it quietly. The faint scent of his clothes, the softness of his handkerchiefs — for a second, it feels like time blinks. If I could have one more day with my father, I wouldn’t ask for revelations — just tea, a conversation, maybe a song. I’d tell him how much I miss him, how much I still need his quiet wisdom. On hard days, I still ask myself, What would Daddy say? – and I get the answer. Some part of me knows he never really left. He just changed his address — now watching over me as my guardian angel, still guiding, still protecting, still proud.

Iti Mattoo

Iti Mattoo, retired after 30 years in the IT industry, now enjoying her creative pursuits.