“Some people should be immortal, it’s not fair that they die.” - My dad
“I watched his last rites on Instagram, goosebumps aa gaye, everyone attended, EVERYONE.” - Flatmate
“Oh shit, damn”. This was me when my brother called with the news that Ratan Tata was no more. It was around 12 a.m. and I was on the couch, watching a movie.
I had this urge to accept the news right away. I thought if I didn’t, I’d keep questioning why it happened. No amount of acceptance could keep the sadness away. It didn’t seem fair.
When I woke up yesterday, most of my acquaintances on Instagram had an ‘RIP sir’ story. By lunch, I saw videos of him being brought to the last rites site.
By evening, there were posts of what other businessmen - Ambani, Birla, Bill Gates posted for him on social media. He was a visionary, an innovator, a mentor, and a role model, but most of all he was a friend.
Even podcasters and ex-employees of Tata Group remember how he made them feel when he spoke to them. ‘He was present’, ‘He was the definition of a true man’, ‘I felt blessed to be in his company.’
Of course they had the right to mourn deeply. But I couldn't understand why I was so sad. I knew his stories but I’d never met him. I knew he was one of the greatest human beings, but I’d never intently read up on him. So why did this loss feel personal?
There was a video where a mass garba function was paused to mourn this loss. There was an Air India flight that announced his demise and thanked him for his service. Diljit Dosanjh spoke about him on stage during his Germany concert.
There was love everywhere. 100% love. Unadulterated, unquestioned, pure. Everyone felt it. A student/wannabe entrepreneur mourned him and so did the richest men on earth. And nobody could contain it. What do you do when there’s so much love and it doesn’t fit that fistful of your heart?
I didn’t want to see who showed up for the last rites, everyone was going to attend. But when I saw his Goa, being brought to pay his tribute, I was moved and crushed.
This is love, I thought. His pet loved him, but so did the person who knew that this great man would want a last, heart-to-heart goodbye from his dog.
My dad would always say, “Khup motha manus ahe ha.” (He’s a big man). He’d clarify that he wasn’t talking about his money. He was talking about what he does with this money - people, animals, our country.
He had a vision for kids with cancer, middle-class families, and for people like you and me. He wanted us to live in a country that stood shoulder-to-shoulder with large economies, so we could hold our heads higher in the world.
I wanted to meet him, but I didn’t reveal this to anyone because for some reason I thought it was embarrassing. Why would someone like me aim to meet him? But why wouldn’t I?
There are few people I yearn to share the air with. I wanted to hear his voice, smile at him, and see his smile. I wanted to know how it would feel to shake his hand and thank him for everything. And I wanted to know what he likes to eat because it would’ve been a pleasure to know that. Most of all, I wanted to ask him how he can give and give and give.
Where does all this love come from? Where does he get the energy, the motivation, or even the thought of working for others? Why does he choose in favour of the country all the time? Loads of hows and whys because only he could have answered these questions. Even Google can’t show the right results for these queries. The answer, according to me, lies in his innate, ingrown nature that doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe that’s why we mourn him this beautifully, this vulnerably; there’s no one like him.
His heart was gold, and he did the impossible with it. Impossible, because neither of us can do it. I don’t think we can cultivate this much love and actually do something about it. But we can aim for it. And we can start by sending every atom of our love to him and that would just be a fraction of what he had for us.
Thank you, sir. Rest in peace.