Dear Ishan
The past few days since your father passed on, for the first time in my life, I’ve run out of real words—and I write for a living, so much for that! Since words escape me in the present, I thought it might be a good idea to write to your future self. Just so you know what kind of man your dad, Aditya Saikia—I called him Saiks/Saikia—was.
And so you keep him with you. In just the same way that I do, until I’m gone. For, we don’t know what happens to us, when we are no more. We do know what happens to those we leave behind.
We continue to live with their memories. It’s only when those memories altogether disappear, that the person actually dies (even metaphorically). Until then they are still around—just not physically (which is simply a lesser matter of practicalities).
So what kind of man was Saiks? He would’ve been many things, to different people. As you will learn, from people, while lenses change, as do perspectives, and aspect ratios. But a common description that you’ll gauge, over time, is that he was foremost, a friends’ friend—or as the Punjabis aptly term it, “Yaaron ka yaar.”
What exactly is friendship? It’s hard to say, beyond terming it the highest form of human love—you may (or may not) find it, but hope to, in your relatives, parents, siblings, colleagues, schoolmates, spouse, fellow travellers.
Greek philosopher Socrates said that we primarily make friends for three reasons—utility, pleasure, and virtue. Of which he said virtue is the reason we should. By which he probably meant a momentary or permanent fellowship born out of such mutual respect and sharing/learning, that we continue to enrich each other. Once that’s in place, utility and pleasure will automatically follow.
I can’t remember the first time I met your father—sometime around 1996-97. We would’ve been in high school—at the time, we went to the same math tutor, one Sundari Aunty. We shared between us the unique distinction of being the least interested in her class. This was in Chanakyapuri, the stunning, government neighbourhood in Delhi, dotted with parks and fields, that’s still thankfully frozen in time.
The reason I don’t remember the first time I met Saiks is because he wasn’t the kind of guy to announce his grand entry into your life, as it were. The beauty of him from thereon was that he was there. And you felt that, without counting years—whenever we met, or did not; wherever he was (Vietnam, Philippines, etc), and I wasn’t.
We weren’t into fist bumps, tight hugs, or loud high-fives. Damn, we weren’t so much into frequent phone calls either. But he was always the thoughtful one, and would care to check in once in a while.
In fact it was all the way in 2019, when Saiks and I were hanging out at his MBA farewell of sorts at Hotel Taj Lands End (where he was pursuing the executive programme) in Bombay, that I told his new friends from the course, that we were “best friends.” Just a casual, almost unnecessary declaration, from a night of excessive partying I guess! The unsaid, soothing experience of having an omnipresent friend is higher than friendship itself.
I don’t know if it may have surprised math tutor Sundari Aunty, both Saiks and I did make it to a great college—St Stephen’s. And into the course in college that was most coveted at the time—Economics Hons. We carried forward our mutual legacy of being still the least interested in class. Our names regularly showed up in the blacklist for lowest attendance. I will of course advice you against this, Ishan.
But here’s something I’ll tell you that your father would have, and I know that, because we discussed this on occasion. There is way more to education than what you learn in the classroom.
Your father was a connoisseur of eclectic books. He read well. He was particularly well-informed on news and current affairs. Your mother may not agree, but I also think he dressed well—cool checks, smart-casual. While being a movie critic, I took movie/series reccos from him. No one can teach you taste. You have to learn it yourself. He was a collector of diverse and interesting company. He learnt from people.
These attributes would have held him in better stead than any classroom or profs like KRC, Raghu etc could. Goes without saying, career wise, the serious men who topped the Economics class, did no better in the long-run than he did. They could’ve turned out to be boring, which is an unforgivable sin.
At college, during second year, I moved to live on campus. Saiks was still my connect to Delhi and the Chanakyapuri of our childhood. He would come over on occasion to my college room, before classes started—almost like a morning alarm. The same way he used to patiently wait at my home, when I’d take forever to wake up, and we went to college together in the first year.
He would often drive me back during weekends from college hostel (called rez), in his white Zen. On one of these afternoons, we got stopped by a traffic cop, somewhere by Red Fort in Outer Ring Road, because he’d crossed the stop line, when the traffic signal was red. It would’ve been a tough call even for a ‘third umpire’, if he had indeed stepped over the line—the wheels were on the crease.
Leading up to Jan 26 Republic Day parade, Delhi Police is entrusted with collecting as much traffic violation fines they can. I’m told a good portion of the ceremony funding comes from there. The cops had already pulled out a challan and fined us a hefty sum—which is all the money we had.
The cop asked for Saikia’s driving license. He read his father’s name on it—your grandfather was a big shot at the Prime Minister’s Office, known to all. The traffic cop literally dived on Saiks’ foot to say sorry. He didn’t say a word. We paid up and drove on.
This is to tell you what a subtle, gentle soul Saiks was. So is his mother. I find your mom similar. Pretty sure you’ll turn out the same way. You’ll realise as you make your own friends, that we tend to have disagreements, get into verbal fights even—because that’s what you do sometimes, with those you’re close. You only ignore ones you don’t care for at all.
It’s still nearly bizarre that in 25 years that I knew Saiks, never once did we get into a fight. Only twice, if I think really hard, that I can even recall a minor argument. One of which was late-night banter at his apartment in London that I was visiting. We had an excessively boiling hot debate over Indian politics. He was a political realist. I was still into idealism. Given a pragmatic lens, he in fact understood Indian politics better than most experts I know.
But you must also know that the Saiks I met in Chanakyapuri—high school, and then the college classmate; a quiet, reticent teetotaler—was very different from the Saikia I met in London. Who was also not exactly the same Saikia I knew in Bombay, where he moved briefly and lived in Bandra around 2008, when we’d practically party every alternate day.
This investment banker Saiks was again very different from the person into the skill-development sector, working in Guwahati, and thereafter in Gurgaon. My joke on him, with a grain of truth, was about how, pretty much every Assamese I bumped into anywhere, turned out to be his cousin. He was coming good on his cousins. I was proud of him.
Of course, to me, he was the same Saikia all through—generous to a fault, dependable as a rock, without making a show of either. But I could see him evolve from an introvert, settling into a secure ambivert, with his own unique energy. He had developed an uncanny ability to bring friends together—mixing up groups, making new buddies along the way, some of whom have become close to me. Uncle Kunal (Solanki) is one of them.
Yaaron ka yaar, as I said. But at the core, he was yet someone you’d sit still and do precious little with—say nothing at all, or just chat, chill, discussing stuff happening in our lives. Besides a common passion for Delhi-style butter chicken, naan and dal makhani—ideally devoured at a dhaba type joint, way past midnight; the later, the better.
What was he like to friends? Deliciously sarcastic with a strong, in-built bull-shit detector—probably why he publicly stayed off social media. As I write this, I can almost hear him gently go under his breath, “Dude, no; seriously?” Slipping into poor Hindi as the night progressed. What did we really talk about? There is an anonymous quote (often attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt) that great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.
Which is a bit too judgmental, of course—let’s just say we were all three minds with each other, but predominantly veering toward ideas, happily descending into getting nostalgic about events, and top-quality gossip about people, too. As it should be. The three are inter-related.
The last time I met Saiks was on Feb 16, 2021. He had come down to Bombay. He was staying at my writing pad. We were getting dinner at Bonobo in Bandra. It was like any other evening, but he asked me if I wanted to see your latest photos, Ishan. It’s something he had never said before.
I was heading to the loo right then, and we went on to talk about other stuff when I returned—think Assam elections that were coming up; or how a complicated GST was screwing up with billing for cafeteria facilities at his office, or some such.
On my way home, I remembered he hadn’t shown me your pictures. That was my last text to him. Of course I’ll see you, and we’ll talk about him a lot more. Hope to be your friend, like I was to Saiks.
You can call me Mayank, or My Uncle (there’s a knock-knock joke in there!).