The First Impression
When I think of my Phoofaji — Devji — the first image that rises, clear as a winter morning, is of a very handsome bridegroom. I must have been all of six years old, small enough to be ignored and old enough to stare properly. Upright and fit, with the unmistakable bearing of his army background and later the quiet authority of an IAS officer, he looked every bit the officer and the gentleman. And yet, what made the picture unforgettable was the contrast beside him—my very simple, graceful bua, whose soft, expressive face always reminded me of a young Jaya Bhaduri.
What I learned later made that picture even more interesting. Both of them belonged to the same IAS batch — a detail that, to my younger and slightly filmi mind, always raised a quiet suspicion. I have long harboured the affectionate doubt that this may well have been a love marriage gracefully presented as an arranged one — perhaps to ensure that we, the next generation, did not get any overly adventurous ideas.
It was, after all, a Himachali–Kashmiri match — and in those days, such inter-caste, inter-regional marriages were rare enough to qualify as quiet bravery. The theory, of course, was never officially confirmed… but some family mysteries are best preserved with a smile.
At the time, like most children watching the grown-up world unfold, I did not fully grasp the quiet strength of that partnership. Today, it feels beautifully obvious.
The News and the Journey
A few days ago, he passed away in Singapore.
Uncannily, in that foreign country far from home, the devoted follower of Sai was given a farewell that would hardly have been possible in India. He was taken on a gleaming golden chariot while his favourite bhajans played softly in the air—an ending that felt both grand and divinely ordained.
Even as the news settled in, there was little time to pause. The 10th to 12th day rituals were to be held in Chamba, his ancestral home in Himachal, and preparations began.
Three of us — my mom, my chachi, and I — chose what we believed was the safest plan: a long Volvo ride to the mountains.
The journey had its lighter moments. My foreign-returned chachi suggested we go early and “sit comfortably in the café.” I remember scanning ISBT with mild confusion, wondering when exactly this grand transformation had happened.
Even in the middle of a solemn journey, he would probably have approved of the small laughter that travelled with us. Life, as he quietly demonstrated, did not require noise — but it did allow for the occasional gentle chuckle.
But fifteen hours is a long time.
Somewhere between the plains and the hills, with the road stretching ahead, I found myself with something we rarely get—time. Time to sit with memories and ask: what kind of person was he, really?
Mulling Over the Man He Was
The more I thought, the clearer one thing became—he never wore his achievements loudly.
Coming from a modest Himachali background, rising through the army and then the IAS, he could easily have carried an air of importance. But he never did. If anything, success only deepened his simplicity.
He spoke little, but when he did, there was always something layered beneath the words. Often my father and I would exchange quick glances after one of his remarks, quietly wondering if we had fully understood him. Even his poetry carried that same thoughtful depth.
Devji did not merely perform tasks; he refined them.
Take his tea. In most homes, tea is cheerful chaos. Not with him. The water reached its precise boil. The gas was turned off at exactly the right moment. Only then were the tea leaves added and allowed to brew patiently. Never hurried. Never careless.
As children, we only knew one thing: tea made by him tasted… important.
For all this precision, he remained wonderfully down to earth—dependable without announcement, helpful without drama, the kind of person who solved problems so quietly that one noticed only after things were already set right.
With children, he had a special gentleness. Not overly indulgent, not theatrically playful—but deeply attentive. He listened. Really listened.
There was always space around him—space to speak, space to be, space to grow.
Love in Action
The last few years of his life were not easy. Ill health tested him, and it tested the family. But that period revealed the true strength of the home he had built.
My bua, Asha, cared for him with single-minded devotion—steady, dignified, and full of love. Her attention to his meals, medicines, and smallest comforts never wavered.
And the children stood by her just as firmly.
In ways both big and beautifully ordinary, they supported her with full hearts—quietly rearranging routines, sharing responsibilities, and doing the very best they could, day after day.
Watching them, one thought stayed with me: this was not sudden goodness. This was upbringing. This was his legacy at work.
Chamba: Where It All Made Sense
By the time we reached Chamba, the air itself felt different—cool, unhurried, quietly dignified. It suited him perfectly. The mountains did not overwhelm; they simply stood — steady, watchful, and calm — much like the man we had come to remember.
His ancestral home stands in the old Himachali joint-family style—all the brothers’ houses-built side by side, connected by a common portico that feels less like architecture and more like shared memory. Nearly thirty members of the core family had gathered, yet what struck me most was the calm order of it all. There was movement everywhere — tea being poured, bedding being arranged, quiet conversations in corners — and yet nothing felt chaotic. It was the kind of collective rhythm that only long years of living together can produce.
The quiet mountain life, the joint family upbringing, the easy community living, the non-judgmental acceptance of each person irrespective of how conventionally successful they were—suddenly, many pieces of his personality fell into place.
Even during the final send-off, when the belongings of the departed are traditionally given away, the same spirit was visible. Members of the community came forward with cash, sweets, fruits, and clothes. It did not feel like the ritual of a single household. It felt like a farewell offered by an entire circle of lives he had quietly touched.
Only Quiet Love
His name was Dev Swarup( God-like) — and uncannily, he lived its meaning.
There was something gently elevated about his presence. Not distant. Not imposing. Simply composed in a way that naturally drew respect.
He never believed in drama. Even in farewell, there was none — only quiet love, careful precision, and the lasting warmth of a life lived the way he brewed his tea: slowly, thoughtfully, and just right.
We will miss you deeply. And yet, in the small rituals done with care, you will always be with us.
PS : Both Devji and Asha Swarup served in various capacities of their IAS tenure in Himachal Pradesh & Central Government
Iti Mattoo, retired after 30 years in the IT industry, now enjoying her creative pursuits.
Dear Iti, as usual, being a Late Lateef, I’m perhaps the last one to read your wonderful ode, dedicated to the much esteemed Devji. I appreciate its affectionate sentiments as well as its consummate diction. It is an unmatched piece of writing, much suitable for a collection that both of us referred to sometime in the past.