My Cousin Ananth . In Remembrance

 

My earliest memories of Ananth take me back to childhood, to the long and eagerly awaited annual trips to Mangalore for Ganesh Chaturthi. Along with my father, mother, little sister and little brother, I would join the rest of the family in what was always a joyous celebration. Cousins, uncles and aunts gathered together, the whole house buzzing with energy. One of the highlights was the procession to the idol maker’s shop, where we brought home the sacred Ganesha idol. The air was filled with laughter, teasing, and the sound of footsteps that carried both devotion and delight.

For Ananth and me, the real contest was always over the clay mouse that accompanied Lord Ganesha. We both wanted it, as if the little mouse carried a magic of its own. Since the original mouse had to be immersed along with the idol, Ananth’s father, who was also my father’s elder brother, would carefully make an extra clay mouse so that neither of us went away heartbroken. To us as children, those mice were not trifles but treasures, proof of the small but sacred battles of our youth.

Once, in our boundless creativity, we even decided to make our own Ganesha. We took one of Ananth’s play dolls and stuck a clay trunk on it. To our young eyes, it was a proper idol, though looking back now I smile at the thought of that misshapen creation. Yet the memory is precious, because it reminds me of how Ananth and I shared not just festivals but imagination, innocence and laughter.

Tragedy entered his life early, with the passing of his mother when he was only four. But life also gave him a blessing, for my uncle married again, and his new mother raised Ananth as her very own son. He grew up surrounded by love and carried that love with him into everything he did.

One memory that always makes me smile is of his Munji, the sacred thread ceremony. In those days there was a tradition that the boy would briefly be without clothes while the priest prepared to dress him in sacred garments. All of us cousins were waiting eagerly, determined to tease him for it all day. But Ananth was cleverer than us. He quietly slipped away earlier, and by the time we cousins gathered he had already gone through the ritual privately. We never had the chance to tease him. That was Ananth even as a boy, always a step ahead, always composed, always wise in his own way.

As we grew older, distance and studies carried us away from Mangalore and its festivals. Yet when Ananth finished engineering and began working in Bangalore, our paths crossed again. He quickly learnt the ropes, built his career, and established himself. But what always stood out was his deep sense of responsibility. For every family function, whether it was a wedding, a Munji or Ganesh Chaturthi, Ananth would be there, working quietly in the background, ensuring that everything went smoothly.

At my own wedding, when the day was full of rituals and exhaustion, it was Ananth who not only ran around to retrieve my brother’s delayed baggage but also made sure that my bride and I were kept hydrated. He would slip us cold juices and water with a quiet smile, never drawing attention to his efforts. That was Ananth’s way of showing love, not through big declarations but through small, thoughtful acts that made all the difference.

Ganesh Chaturthi, celebrated each year under the leadership of my cousin Nagendra Anna, was another place where Ananth shone. He was the backbone of the celebration, making sure the ornaments were polished, the arrangements complete, and above all that the idol was adorned with beauty and care. Thanks to him, our idol was always admired and remembered. His devotion to Lord Ganesha was not just ritual but heartfelt. He built a collection of idols in his home, and alongside this devotion he also cultivated interests that reflected his patient and meticulous nature. He was a passionate numismatist with a remarkable coin collection and a philatelist with a wide range of first day covers. His mind was curious, his hands skilful, and his heart quietly full of devotion.

And then came the morning of September 20th. Without warning, Ananth was taken from us. At only forty eight, he felt giddy, collapsed in the restroom, and was gone before any of us could even grasp what was happening. A sudden brain haemorrhage ended a life that was so full of vigour, care, and quiet strength. Even now I find myself in shock, repeating the question that has no answer. Why him, and why so soon.

The Bhagavad Gita reminds us that the soul is eternal. In Chapter 2, verse 20, it says:

न जायते म्रियते वा कदाचि
नायं भूत्वा भविता वा न भूय: |
अजो नित्य: शाश्वतोऽयं पुराणो
न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे || 20||

na jāyate mriyate vā kadāchin
nāyaṁ bhūtvā bhavitā vā na bhūyaḥ
ajo nityaḥ śhāśhvato ’yaṁ purāṇo
na hanyate hanyamāne śharīre

“For the soul there is neither birth nor death at any time. It has not come into being, does not come into being, and will not come into being. It is unborn, eternal, ever-existing and primeval. It is not slain when the body is slain.”

These words are meant to give us strength, to remind us that what we lose in body we do not lose in spirit. Yet grief does not always heed wisdom. I find myself weeping without tears, silently rolling through memories of clay mice, crooked Ganeshas, sly escapes, and thoughtful acts. In mourning Ananth, I am reminded of my own mortality. His life, though short, was filled with meaning. He lived as a son, a cousin, a devotee, a collector, a helper, a doer, and above all, as a man who gave of himself to others.

Like all of us, Ananth had but one life to live. He lived it beautifully, not in search of grandeur, but in service, in devotion, and in love. That is no small achievement. It is, in fact, a life well lived.

Ananth, you will be missed in every festival, in every gathering, in every memory. Adieu, dear cousin. May your soul find peace in the embrace of the divine, and may the love you gave so quietly and fully remain with us forever.