My tribute to Daddyji - my Father-in-Law

My father-in-law was a man of taste, style, and one who believed in living a good-life, kingsize. A doctor by profession, his personality held a different shade for every moment, occasion, and interaction. He was a medical professional for his patients, a healer for his close friends and family, a counsellor for those facing troubled times, a storyteller for grandchildren and adults alike, a socialite, a dutiful son and younger brother, a faithful husband, and a doting father and grandfather. 

 

Tall and slim, his handsomeness was matched with an enduring charm, his presence always commanding even in a room full of younger men. Some of the pictures of his youth are testimony of what a handsome young man he must have been and pardon me for imagining how young ladies at the time would have swooned over him. Perhaps characteristic of surgeons and doctors, he had strikingly long and thin fingers. He dressed sharply and rebuked those whom he found lacking in his close quarters. His passion for looking his best self probably stemmed from his early life, heavily influenced by his parents. His father was a senior government administrator during the Raj and mother - a radiant beauty and endearing caregiver, both of whom instilled the value of selfcare and discipline among their children. 

My father-in-law was the youngest of ten siblings, and the only doctor. He went to the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune (AFMC) to complete his MBBS. No doubt, the strict disciplinary environment at the college had a lasting impact on him. Aside from the medical training that place made him what he was. He often regaled us with stories of his time spent there and of friends whom he had met for life. Thereafter in the 70s, he went to England and began his career with the NHS. He often talked about British registrars and senior doctors whom he worked with at the hospitals in the Midlands. As a young man, he was no doubt enthralled by the English culture and traditions which he embraced and kept alive forever. From his love for marmalade on toast to hot steamy jacket potatoes, from dressing-up immaculately complete with a neck-tie and blazer to enjoying traditional British T.V., from obsessing over cutlery and good table habits to a strong whiskey, he imbibed the best of the British unapologetically. Many decades later, when visiting us in London he would instantly fit right in, as if nothing had changed. Accompanying him to his favourite supermarket - Marks & Spencer, would often be tiring for the rest of us. However, he would shop unfazed while we watched him going from aisle to aisle beaming with a childlike quality. 

His life in the UK was fulfilling and comfortable. Well-respected as a doctor with plentiful opportunities to learn and grow, married to an equally talented doctor wife, with two beautiful children and a doting mother, his story was one among many of such hardworking and successful migrants of that time. Yet his story was extraordinary as it ought to be of a man who was not an ordinary man. While others were getting comfortable in the daily humdrum of a monotonous British life, my father-in-law decided to return home to India for good. At (something more than) a whim coupled with limited deliberation he resigned from his job, gave up his chance of securing a British citizenship, and the prospects of an easy and secure family life. That was in the late 80s - something that many Indians would give an arm and a leg for even today. He lived the best of British life for nearly two decades. 

No doubt, his strong family ties and an innate desire to serve his own family as a doctor pulled him back to the Indian shores. With no permanent jobs to go back to, the family settled back into the great Indian joint family set-up. The family home in the heart of Central Delhi accommodated at least three other brothers, their families, young children, and various family heirlooms. Besides the residents, the house was also a hub for extended family members, outstation visitors, neighbours, and friends. There was noise, laughter, joy, chores, tempers, and clashes - all in equal measure. Stories of that time are legendary. There are also musings about a red Datsun, imported from England and being driven around Delhi by a young doctor who was perhaps out of touch with reality of Delhi roads and traffic nuances. 

Eventually in the early 90s, after moving through a few interim abodes and working at National Heart Institute and Noida Medicare Center, my father-in-law built and moved into his dream house in Noida. This was to also serve as his private clinic for a long-term practice. Noida, an upcoming and planned residential area hugging the Delhi border was an attractive location for many professionals looking to buy land and build homes at that time. Like in everything else, he put his vision, hardwork and passion for perfection into building the house. There are hand drawings of arches, door and window frames, marble staircase, flooring patterns, preserved to this day. Every last detail was thought through and executed under close supervision, something that can be seen in the splendour of the house that it radiates even after 35 years. 

My father-in-law was a strong-willed man and at the same time had an intangible feminine quality of looking for beauty in everything. He was a serial collector who liked to pick artefacts and small delicate keepsakes. His room, clinic and house, is a museum of sorts - with books, mugs, crystal vases, sculptures, paintings, cutlery, restaurant menus, and even stationary - each one a tangible memory about a person or a place.

He despised mainstream daytime television but liked to indulge in old soulful Bollywood movies and videos. I often pictured him as a tunnel connecting our multimedia smartphone dependent lives to the black&white era of slow and soulful entertainment. He loved sports too and surprisingly (for me) adapted rather quickly to the fast changing cricket formats. In recent times and to the great delight of his eldest grandson, he had built up a voracious appetite for watching the IPL. He was a keen but dispassionate observer of Indian and British politics. He devoured books by politicians, economists, filmmakers, businessmen, and spiritual gurus. A sincere reader of Osho’s teachings, he often quoted interesting snippets. He was a patron of the ISCKON temple aside from being a devout follower of Jainism. He connected to his spiritual side in his own way without following a prescribed template - reading and analysing several spiritual philosophies in parallel and even on the go. Out of his many interesting habits, one that stands out in my memory was his daily ritual to click and share a picture of his garden (or farm) inspiring us to look for beauty in nature around us. He would also collect and preserve insightful thought pieces from the newspaper, especially the ‘SpeakingTree’ column. An adorable quirk worth noting was his own dislike for swallowing pills/tablets, sitting on them for hours, making excuses, before finally consuming without spitting out.

A tough exterior with an endearing demeanour, he was an unconventionally emotional man. Aside from a huge extended family, he had innumerable number of friends, close friends, life-long friends, ‘kitty-group’ friends, ‘doctor’ friends, ‘army’ friends, ‘patient-turned-family’ friends, young and old, male and female, common and famous, rich and influential - he loved and was loved by one and all. I was often exasperated at seeing his busy social diary and the number of times his phone would ring during meal times. But I never caught even the slightest disdain in his tone or facial expressions at attending to any social commitments. The more the merrier in the truest sense of the word. As his day would get busier from morning to evening to night, it seemed as if his energy levels would rise in direct proportion. He would say, “this is my tonic, Ashima - kya karein?!”.

   

Any memoir about my father-in-law would be grossly incomplete without alluding to his love for delectable food. A nose and palette borrowed from royalty perhaps, he was always the most enthusiastic person in the room for eating, sharing, critiquing, and complementing the food that was served. Everything had to be right in taste and appearance and laid out to perfection. Needless to say his knack of picking on burnt ‘jeera in tadka’ or imperfect chopping of ‘tori’ (ridge gourd) or over-squeezing of a tea bag would not always go down well with the staff or indeed the ladies of the house. In hindsight though, I think it probably served us in honing our culinary skills. Every meal whether breakfast or evening tea had to be savoured and relished like a feast. Anyone on any occasion who walked through the doors was served with respect, humility, and love. Our household kitchen and dining room was revered for its delectatable food choices, delicious preparations, and warm hospitality. Among his many admirers and followers, some from the hospitality sector also benefited from his expert food advice regarding flavours and presentations. If I had to pick two food items that he loved most - my choices would be samosa and mangoes. Ironically, his last planned but incomplete trip was booked for a night stay at 'Rambaghaan', a mango farm with his friends in Uttar Pradesh.

My father-in-law was a professional doctor with the soul of a healer. He attended to each patient laboriously and with compassion. He maintained a somewhat old school and relatively small private clinic for his practice. While being progressive in his medical thinking, he maintained some traditional norms and methods such as using a manual BP machine or writing prescriptions by hand. I think at some level, it was his way of truly personalising his practice and staying connected to his traditional roots and leanings. His clinic was always bustling with patients from all walks of life and from near and afar, including friends and family (who were always welcome), often staying longer for an extra chat or a cup of ‘chai’. The conversations would range from small talk to extended personal conversations to full-blown counselling sessions. He was a master communicator, knowing exactly when to switch from talking to listening, from giving advice to feeling empathy. No doubt, so many came so close to him sharing deepest anxieties, with him being their most trusted confidant. 

Daddyji passed away on 19 June 2025, just shy of 77 years of age. He worked till the very day when he had to be moved to the hospital for critical care. Having worked in geriatrics in the UK, he had quipped that life after 75years is worthless if you are not able to work well and live well. Destiny endowed him with the greatest gift. He lived till his body and mind were onside to enable him to fulfill his life’s purpose. Post Daddy’s death, the mourning period was sorrowful yet had an inexplicable calmness. I had time for quiet introspection about the purpose and legacy of one’s life. So many people came and spoke, each one reminiscing and sharing their own unique experiences with Daddy, all bound together by the common thread that was his boundless warmth and tireless care. It is my good fortune that I came to know him as he became my biggest cheerleader as well as critic. He always pushed me to do better - at the time it sounded harsh. As time has passed and I reflect, he was perhaps teaching me the very basics by which he lived his own life, with a big heart and a big smile, a purposeful life spent in the pursuit of perfection and happiness. 

Daddy, you were taken from us suddenly and we didn’t get enough time to prepare for the vacuum that you have left behind. I wish your grandchildren had more time with you to regale in your joyful presence and unconditional love. I know however, that whatever time they did get to spend with you is forever etched in their memories and you are a constant source of warmth and inspiration for them each and every day - just like the sun.

With a heart full of sorrow and gratitude, Ashima