my mind keeps waiting to hear your familiar call — “Kay Bandhu!”— Rajendra Pawar

July 22. Today you would have turned 67 — one year younger than me.

The entire span of our lives flashes before my eyes. When we were just 4–5 years old, you would scare me in the dark by running off with the lantern at night in Baramati. In the summer, after swimming in the canal, we would roll around on the dusty road. Back then, we were terrified of the canal inspector (Patkari), yet when we grew up, you became the minister of that very department!

When we went to collect our school certificates, too scared to go home, we sat on Chowpatty in Mumbai until the school reopened. Watching the red-beacon cars pass by, we would wonder aloud, “Will we ever become like that someday?” And look — while we were still saying those words, you actually became a minister. I also clearly remember the two of us immersing Tatya Saheb’s ashes together at the Panchganga Ghat.

We brought cows from Bangalore by truck, travelling together the entire journey. On Nagpanchami, we would prepare the glass-coated manja strings, but it was always you who flew the kites and cut down the others’. Our childhood passed by in the blink of an eye.

You grew up, became a minister, but you always preserved a tender, loving corner in your heart. When Rohit was only two months old, you drove the entire way to Ooty for your honeymoon, carrying such a tiny baby along. And it was you who looked after that same Rohit during his first election. Even though we ended up in different political parties, towards the very end you spoke warmly and affectionately with him about coming together again and working side by side.

When you came to inaugurate Krushik, you ate with great relish the favourite dish prepared by your sister-in-law, along with wood apple (kavath), and wholeheartedly praised the meal — exactly as you always did. You were someone who always spoke straight from the heart about the things you loved.

You are no longer with us. Just as the accidental death of our uncle Vasantdada around 1964 had left the entire Pawar family stunned and speechless, today your passing has cast the same profound silence and grief over us. The difference between your presence and your absence is felt intensely by everyone. Even though it is a harsh truth that you are gone, the illusion that you will return still lingers. I miss you from the depths of my heart. Your presence is still felt at every moment, and my mind keeps waiting to hear your familiar call — “Kay Bandhu!”— Rajendra Pawar