Farewell my friend, Raja

My cousin Raja, 76, died with an unfulfilled wish. He wanted to visit Mysore to spend a few days with us. I spoke to him last before we left for the US in June last. My fault was I didn't get in touch with him on my return. And Raja, appears, had been talking about his plan to visit Mysore to his son Siva, daughter-in-law Anandhi, and even his neighbours at Lokmanya St. in Coimbatore . He would have probably made it, if only he knew that we were back in Mysore; and if only I had phoned him on my return from the US, more than a month ago.

Raja died on Monday (Oct.26) during his afternoon snooze. Siva reckoned his father had premonition; for Raja had mentioned to his son earlier on Monday morning that he preferred to go in sleep. "I even chided him," said Siva sobbing, " for talking silly things as I was leaving for work". A day earlier, when Raja went for a routine medical check-up he mentioned to the doctor that he felt he would not be around for long, even though the doctor didn't find anything wrong or life-threatening in his patient. But he died within the next 24 hrs.

Anandhi, who went to serve him coffee on Monday afternoon, found him dead in his sleep. Siva said his father had expressed preference for the traditional firewood cremation. Arrangements
were made by Gomathi's people. Raja had told me about Gomathi, a spirited woman who runs a Brahmins cremation agency in Coimbatore. Raja had engaged her services on the death of his borther-in-law Chandrasekar a couple of years back, and that of his sister Jayam a few years earlier.

As we watched Raja's body being taken away to the cremation ground I remembered his expressed desire for visiting Mysore, and I blamed myself for not making it happen. I felt guilty of having failed to stay in touch with Raja, particularly during recent weeks when he had felt the need for our company. Raja and I were close during my school days in Coimbatore. We re-connected during my posting in Chennai as Times of India correspondent in early 90s.

My wife and I used to visit him whenever we had occasion to pass through Coimbatore, on our way to Coonoor or Pollachi. After we settled in Mysore, nearly five years back, Raja came to spend a week with us, along with his grandson Mallikarjun. We also maintained telephonic contact, despite his deafness. Our phone conversation was mostly one-sided, with him doing
much of the talking. However when Raja was in Mysore I engaged him in conversation, with a notepad in hand. I jotted down my thoughts for him to read and this set Raja going for a while, till I wrote out something else for him to talk about.

I enjoyed chatting him up about our Coimbatore days. His father and my periappa Tirumurthy Iyer was a school teacher and later head-master of Veerasami School in Coimbatore. I was doing my schooling at R S Puram Municipal school , staying with grandparents at Telugu Brahmin Street.

During his Mysore visit Raja kept us engaged in chat about old days. And my mother, to whom Raja had special regards, joined in our converstion. I relished Raja's company for his story-telling skill and his anecdotes pertaining to our relatives and also the Telugu Brahmin Street charecters we both knew, and could relate with - such as primary school principal Ramarao, street-corner shop-keeper Kuppusamy, Nagappa Asaari (goldsmith), Ramamirtham vadhiyar, our neighbour we referred to as 'German Doctor' , and the chief priest at the Rajarajeshwari temple, at the far end of Telugu Brahmin Street.
Our street has since changed beyond recognition. Our grandfather's house, sold by my periamma, has changed so much in appearance that I couldn't make out the house where I had spent a part of boyhood.
The only structure that still remains unchanged is the primary school run that used to be run by headmaster Ramarao.

Though he was five years elder , Raja treated me as an equal; and this, at a time when even relations barely an year older sought to asserted seniority, and entitlement to be addressed with respect. He was always Raja, and never Raja-anna for me.