“Come home on a weekend, when you’re free. We need to talk about what you want to do with your life”, he said.
“I will, Periappa”, I promised.
I didn’t realize at the time that it would be the last time I would ever speak to him.
I never did go.
N. Thomas Jeyachandran passed away on May 5th at around 12:15 AM. In death, as in life, he was a fighter. Meticulous and clear in what he wanted. Despite being clinically dead for 20 minutes, he fought for a whole day and only let go after his son flew in from Singapore.
The second of four sons, he was the most charismatic of the lot. Six feet tall, solid build, genial smile and eyes that were mischievous, warm and sparkly. He had a razor sharp wit and a biting sense of humour. His imposing personality notwithstanding, he was one of the softest people I’ve known.
Carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders right until the end. He once told me, “Your father is always scared. He needs to be brave. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him”, as though my dad was still a little kid. He’s 72. But that was my Periappa for you. Forever worried about his family.
Towards the end, our sporadic conversations would invariably follow the same pattern. We would start talking and after a while his voice would break and both of us would end up trying to hold back the tears. I still remember the way he used to call me. ‘Deepaaaaak’, ‘Deepaaaaak’, the extra weight added to the last part of my name showing me how much he loved me. I’m not able to get his voice out of my head.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more often. I’m sorry I didn’t visit more often or talk to you as much as you would have wanted me to. I know you were trying actively to get my life back on track. One of these days, Periappa, I promise you. Until then let your love see me through another day.
lifethrumyopiceyes 