My Uncle

This was written last Monday, the day my father's brother died.

Doddappa died today.

He died peacefully, reciting the names of gods; his son, daughter-in-law and one daughter were next to him, and the other daughter was on a video call. A gentle way to go after many months of suffering.

“Annaiah passed away today at 1 AM”, my dad messaged. “pritam - subbarao Doddappa passed away”, my brother messaged.

My heart was a little puddle, and a pebble was sinking into it.

All the interactions I had with him recently were very limited...Whenever we were in Bangalore, Ania and visited him. We gave him updates on our life in Dharamkot, I would ask how he was spending his time, and he would say he was watching TV all day or how much pain he was in, and then we would sit in silence for a few minutes and leave. There was rarely more, so where was this hurt coming from?

Is it because he was family? He was, and it was clear he loved me. He always spoke to me with kindness in his eyes, even when he was sick or hurting.

Yes. That’s part of it, or maybe all of it.

But what does it mean to be family?

It starts with him being my father’s brother. It continues into the respect that the term “Doddappa” brings with it.

It goes further: into childhood where he taught me to play chess, where he let me win first and then was proud that I won on my own. I remember sitting— on the couch, or maybe the floor, or was it a diwan? I guess it doesn’t matter. But Doddappa is sitting opposite me, smiling as he defeats me in four moves, his queen destroying my king. I’ve used that move many times since then to almost no success.

It’s about him teaching me how to perform Sandhyavandane. I would cycle to his house every morning, sit in front of his gods and follow him as he guided me through the ritual, eventually learning to do it myself. It’s about the Gayatri Mantra, a part of the ritual that has permanently occupied a corner of my mind.

So many times, I have used the mantra to bring myself a sliver of calm in situations that aren’t so calm. Ten years ago, in Ladakh, on the Markha Valley trek, rocks fell on my head as I was walking below a cliff. Later, when I was walking next to a stream, tired and nervous, I inhaled as I recited the mantra, and exhaled, reciting the mantra again. It brought me peace, and I could hear the water again.

Maybe it’s time, in honour of Doddappa, to learn what the mantra means.

Today was day three of the Iyengar Yoga course that Ania and I are taking. Every time we held a pose, I breathed with the mantra. In his honour.

It makes me sad that the end of his life was full of pain. However, like my father said, he was determined to live and to see more of his family live their lives. So maybe it wasn’t full of sadness after all, but acceptance. I find it hard to accept that near the end of his life, he was unfair to his daughters— whom he had brought up with so much love. But to me, this is just a small dark cloud in a blue sky of love.

On my running route here, I am familiar with the shape of many rocks. Some rocks are big and they seem stable, like they will always be there to support me. They are so friendly that I can almost imagine them encouraging me as I run past them. I don’t appreciate them every time I pass, but their presence on the path is a comfort that makes the run easier. It’s like a part of the world that lets me be who I am on the run, that gives me my identity as a runner.

But even the rocks don’t last forever. Doddappa’s death is like a monsoon landslide that took away the rock to a new location where I don’t see it anymore. Maybe the rock wanted to continue being in the same place. I know I wanted the rock to be stuck in the same place forever, but the rain doesn’t listen to me. Maybe this was the monsoon’s way of setting the rock free. My run will be different now.

The rock was a much more permanent fixture in the landscape of my dad’s life. For a long time, Doddappa and my father were rocks together, supporting a thousand runners in a thousand ways. Now one rock is gone, and one rock is alone.

New rocks are being formed all the time, but I know I am not the same quality of rock. The rains come, rocks wash away, new rocks take their place, the trail changes, and the runners keep running.