My brother-in-law Vij died on October 30, 2010. My wife and I had just returned from the gym; I was in the shower when the call came. When Nirmala informed me of his death, I didn't think something, but heard something. It was the second movement of Mozart's Piano Concerto in A, arguably the most beautiful and poignant slow movement that that great master ever wrote. It has always affected me very deeply. Something very much part of this world and yet something very much beyond it. Only after the initial piano solo and the incredibly moving orchestral section finished playing in my mind, did I return to the world of the living. And the dead.
I met Vij during my first visit to India in 1977, three years after my wife and I were married. Although most of my wife's relatives were living in Chennai--then called Madras--we had to travel to North India to meet Vij, who at that time was a lieutenant colonel in the Indian Army, stationed in the north. How vivid my memory is of that time! I remember banal, yet revealing things, too, an example of which follows. Shortly after our arrival, Vij, his wife, Pechu, Nirmala and I set forth on a shopping trip to the bazaar in Mathura, a very dusty, historical city. There was an officers' party that night; his wife was going to play the guitar and wanted to buy some bangles. It was a scene husbands and wives repeat the world over. Pechu couldn't make up her mind; we, it seemed to me, had to visit every shop in the entire city! Vij became frustrated, of course, but didn't show it. If it was important to his wife to find the perfect bangle, it was important to him, too--even though he had very little appreciation for such things. Vintage Vij.
His devotion to his family was immediately apparent to me. He had two sons, aged seven and four at the time of the officers' party.. The eldest, Sachin, was a cute and very articulate young lad, who, as things turned out, not unexpectedly, became very successful. When I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he smiled, saluted, and said, "I want to be just like Daddy!" The younger son, Robby, a sweet boy--through the years we always took delight in each other's company--was--and is, unfortunately, cognitively impaired. Vij loved both sons equally, but was especially close to Robby, since Robby needed his father so much more.
One of the striking aspects of Vij's personality was not that he was happy just to be around the people he cared about, but was happiest doing things for them. He was a natural-born leader, and used his organizational skills to help family and kin alike. I can think of so many things he did for me! One time in India, I developed a cardiac arrythmia; he arranged for me to see a cardiologist before I even thought that it might be necessary. And once he knew that I wanted to visit the ashram of Ramana Maharshi in Tiruvannamalai, he wrote to the place and arranged everything. (Traveling about in India, at least in those days, was not easy.) Even little things--if I wanted to buy something, he would arrange for his driver to take me to the shop. And I will not forget his last gift. We visited India and saw him for the last time eight months before his death. He did not look well. He already had had a cardiac bypass and a repaired aortic aneurysm; his big heart was failing, although we refused to face the truth. He gave me, as a departing gift, a collection of South Indian music. Once again, vintage Vij. He had absolutely no interest in Indian classical music, but he knew I did. It was this music that my wife and I listened to during the memorial service for him at our house.
There were so many acts of kindness! Vij, as mentioned previously, was extraordinarily dedicated to his handicapped son. He did everything to make him happy, yet, like any good father, disciplined Robby when needed. (Robby always obeyed him; I am always amazed at the reverence and respect most Indian children have for their parents.) Robby likes to dress well; Vij made sure he had an abundant supply of shirts and other articles of clothing. Robby--like me, his uncle--is also very fond of music. Vij would buy him tapes, and, as time passed, CDs. Robby was extremely fond of and dependent on Vij. Vij rarely talked about it, but he worried a lot about his son. Vij knew he would probably not live too long--Who would take care of Robby after his death? He had no reason to fear; Sachin is there for him.
Did Vij have faults? I am sure he did; we all do. When he was younger, I don't think it was not a good thing to be on his bad side. But I didn't see any of this. We were not merely relatives--I only by marriage but completely accepted--we were friends. Age enabled him to accept things the way they are, which allowed his wisdom and kindness to develop fully.
My wife and I felt helpless at the news of his death; so many thousands of miles away! What can we do? What can I do? I had to do something. Now the Mozart that I heard took on a new meaning. It was to be my personal tribute to him.
I searched for and found the sheet music. I felt something inside command me to practice this piece--not so easy for someone with limited musical ability who hasn't been taking lessons for long--and perform it in his honor. (I have since done this many times.)
In Hinduism, the fortieth day after someone's death is important. There will be a ceremony at his house. I felt compelled that the family members have a recording of this very personal and deeply felt tribute to my brother-in-law. The recording will not be on a professional level, far from it; and, no doubt, the music from this side of a cultural divide will not mean as much to them as it means to me. But it will mean something.
Can one with as little talent as I quote Beethoven? Why not? Beethoven wrote on the manuscript of the Kyrie of his Missa Solemnis the following words: "From the heart. May it enter the hearts of others." It is with this same hope that I will make the recording.
Rest in peace, Vij, rest in peace. We will miss you.
I met Vij during my first visit to India in 1977, three years after my wife and I were married. Although most of my wife's relatives were living in Chennai--then called Madras--we had to travel to North India to meet Vij, who at that time was a lieutenant colonel in the Indian Army, stationed in the north. How vivid my memory is of that time! I remember banal, yet revealing things, too, an example of which follows. Shortly after our arrival, Vij, his wife, Pechu, Nirmala and I set forth on a shopping trip to the bazaar in Mathura, a very dusty, historical city. There was an officers' party that night; his wife was going to play the guitar and wanted to buy some bangles. It was a scene husbands and wives repeat the world over. Pechu couldn't make up her mind; we, it seemed to me, had to visit every shop in the entire city! Vij became frustrated, of course, but didn't show it. If it was important to his wife to find the perfect bangle, it was important to him, too--even though he had very little appreciation for such things. Vintage Vij.
His devotion to his family was immediately apparent to me. He had two sons, aged seven and four at the time of the officers' party.. The eldest, Sachin, was a cute and very articulate young lad, who, as things turned out, not unexpectedly, became very successful. When I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he smiled, saluted, and said, "I want to be just like Daddy!" The younger son, Robby, a sweet boy--through the years we always took delight in each other's company--was--and is, unfortunately, cognitively impaired. Vij loved both sons equally, but was especially close to Robby, since Robby needed his father so much more.
One of the striking aspects of Vij's personality was not that he was happy just to be around the people he cared about, but was happiest doing things for them. He was a natural-born leader, and used his organizational skills to help family and kin alike. I can think of so many things he did for me! One time in India, I developed a cardiac arrythmia; he arranged for me to see a cardiologist before I even thought that it might be necessary. And once he knew that I wanted to visit the ashram of Ramana Maharshi in Tiruvannamalai, he wrote to the place and arranged everything. (Traveling about in India, at least in those days, was not easy.) Even little things--if I wanted to buy something, he would arrange for his driver to take me to the shop. And I will not forget his last gift. We visited India and saw him for the last time eight months before his death. He did not look well. He already had had a cardiac bypass and a repaired aortic aneurysm; his big heart was failing, although we refused to face the truth. He gave me, as a departing gift, a collection of South Indian music. Once again, vintage Vij. He had absolutely no interest in Indian classical music, but he knew I did. It was this music that my wife and I listened to during the memorial service for him at our house.
There were so many acts of kindness! Vij, as mentioned previously, was extraordinarily dedicated to his handicapped son. He did everything to make him happy, yet, like any good father, disciplined Robby when needed. (Robby always obeyed him; I am always amazed at the reverence and respect most Indian children have for their parents.) Robby likes to dress well; Vij made sure he had an abundant supply of shirts and other articles of clothing. Robby--like me, his uncle--is also very fond of music. Vij would buy him tapes, and, as time passed, CDs. Robby was extremely fond of and dependent on Vij. Vij rarely talked about it, but he worried a lot about his son. Vij knew he would probably not live too long--Who would take care of Robby after his death? He had no reason to fear; Sachin is there for him.
Did Vij have faults? I am sure he did; we all do. When he was younger, I don't think it was not a good thing to be on his bad side. But I didn't see any of this. We were not merely relatives--I only by marriage but completely accepted--we were friends. Age enabled him to accept things the way they are, which allowed his wisdom and kindness to develop fully.
My wife and I felt helpless at the news of his death; so many thousands of miles away! What can we do? What can I do? I had to do something. Now the Mozart that I heard took on a new meaning. It was to be my personal tribute to him.
I searched for and found the sheet music. I felt something inside command me to practice this piece--not so easy for someone with limited musical ability who hasn't been taking lessons for long--and perform it in his honor. (I have since done this many times.)
In Hinduism, the fortieth day after someone's death is important. There will be a ceremony at his house. I felt compelled that the family members have a recording of this very personal and deeply felt tribute to my brother-in-law. The recording will not be on a professional level, far from it; and, no doubt, the music from this side of a cultural divide will not mean as much to them as it means to me. But it will mean something.
Can one with as little talent as I quote Beethoven? Why not? Beethoven wrote on the manuscript of the Kyrie of his Missa Solemnis the following words: "From the heart. May it enter the hearts of others." It is with this same hope that I will make the recording.
Rest in peace, Vij, rest in peace. We will miss you.
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