Papa (Papaji), your alarm rang twice today—once at 4 a.m., the hour you rose for your morning Gurugita chanting and to send your thoughtful greetings to your long list of loved ones. And again at 4 p.m., when your warm cup of tea would signal the beginning of your evening aarti and havan routine.
That alarm—never once snoozed, never ignored now went on and on waiting for your attention. You surely left a clear message for all of us in self discipline.
Throughout your life you guided us to abide in silence, value time and practice self-restraint. Be grateful and compassionate for all. Follow one path that leads to divinity-the path led by the guru.
Even in your stillness, Papa, you continue to guide.
"God took you with Him so peacefully, as if you had fallen asleep in the lap of serenity—gently, gracefully exiting the physical realm.
You cared so deeply and sincerely that it left an indomitable mark on our spirits .Even in your own pain, you never failed to ask others how they were—and you truly listened. You prayed constantly for the health and safety of those around you, placing their well-being before your own. You remained steadfast in your sadhana, your spiritual practice.
The old saying ‘Jananam sukhadam maranam karunam’—‘birth brings joy, but death is compassionate, for it brings relief’—I understand it now. With your passing, that truth has never felt more real."
That mid-morning was something I now remember with tears in my eyes. You called me “badi bahu” so emphatically and symbolically I was smiling then, seldom did I know, moments later those will be your last words for me . Papa I miss you .
Where do I begin to express my gratitude to you, a person with few words and diamond's worth? A person who was successful in his life not only at his business, which he loved to the end, but also at winning hearts quietly. Many people spoke highly of you, they spoke from their hearts, they reached out and even wrote letters thanking you for standing by them in their most vulnerable states, guiding and encouraging them to find their feet and kick off their businesses; today, they're successful people who remember you with thankful tears.
A gentleman came by—the one who owns the office next to yours—and he went down on his knees as he spoke to Mummy, overwhelmed with emotion while sharing how deeply you had impacted and inspired him. He had lost his father back when he was in the tenth grade, and he remembered the day he walked into his newly acquired office, nervous yet excited, dressed casually in a t-shirt.
You noticed him, welcomed him with a warm cup of tea, and gently explained the importance of showing up like a leader—of dressing the part when you step into your role. You insisted on wrinkle-free, crisply ironed shirts, teaching him not just how to look like a boss, but how to carry himself like one. And you didn’t stop there—you mentored him, guided him, and stood by him as he found his way forward.
He sighed, mourning the loss of his mentor, yet smiled with gratitude for having known him. He told us you always advised against boasting about one's achievements. And true to your teachings, despite owning farmhouses and cow sheds, he remained humble and deeply modest—because that's what you taught him.
Now I understand why you never made a show of everything you had accomplished—not just your material success, but your spiritual growth and the love you gave and received. Papa, you rarely spoke about the hardships you faced. Instead, you chose to highlight the opportunities they brought. While many of us get caught up in setbacks, you had a way of transforming them into stepping stones.
I will always remember the scent of Tea Rose perfume lingering in the air, the crisply ironed shirts you took such pride in, and the polished, gleaming shoes you wore with quiet confidence. You carried yourself with a sense of purpose, fully aware of your worth. You believed that identity shapes reality—that what we believe, we eventually receive.
At the stroke of 10, you would head out, and Pankaj would rush to keep pace with you, tiffins packed precisely to match your rhythm. You returned home at the same time every day, and gradually, the entire household fell into sync with your routine. You never had to ask for anything—things just aligned, as if by some silent agreement.
You lived by one simple principle: discipline and dedication to your work. Everything else, you trusted, would find its rightful place. And it always did.
I remember how closely you guided Neal after his twelfth grade, instilling in him a sense of responsibility and work ethic. At the time, I wondered why the rush—but now I understand. Time was slipping away, and you wanted to pass on your knowledge.
He interned right there in your cabin, sipping on countless cold coffees and sharing grilled sandwiches as a bribe to stay put and learn. You even enrolled in an AI course alongside him—always eager to stay current in the new age.
You prayed so deeply for his dream to study at a top university, and you made sure he visited Ganeshpuri, initiating him into a spiritual path with the same love and intention you carried in everything you did. Now, he visits Ganeshpuri on his own whenever he’s home for a break—something you would have been so proud to see.
You’d often give me updates of Singapore about what Neal was up to, with such joy and detail. I always loved that you knew—really knew—what was going on in his life. It made me feel safe, protected, and deeply comforted just having you around.
Papa in these past years you had become my confidant, my strong support system. You visited my father when he wasn’t keeping well. In my absence when I would be in Rishikesh you would visit papa and check in on him. You had come to believe in me as time passed. When I was invited to speak at the Reserve Bank of India, your happiness matched mine. I still remember your smile and those encouraging words—you made me feel proud of my journey. You offered your wisdom when I was trying to market my trainings, and even though I took time to act on your advice, I always valued it deeply. I loved celebrating your birthdays and all our special occasions with you. You would always be participative and enjoyed the family get togethers. I knew I could count on you, that you'd truly listen in a way few people do. You made space for me not just in your home, but in your heart.
You supported my degrees, work & ambitions and yet always kept me grounded—and for that, I will always be grateful. Your presence at my book launch was so motivating papa, words fall short of the gratefulness I felt when you and chachaji with whole family showed up in my first ever book release.
In times of transition you always called me and explained me things personally and that helped in accepting all difficult changes that took place over the years. You told me one thing which I am still learning to imbibe, in trying times, abide in silence. “Maun ho jao jab samay kharaab ho”.
This past Diwali, when I came to the office for the puja, you opened up and shared how you began your business—with one innovative thought and an enterprising spirit. What stayed with me most was your humility: how deeply grateful you remained to the people who supported you in those early days. Even after they were gone, you spoke of them with reverence. That moment taught me something profound—how success is not only about the milestones we reach, but the values we carry with us along the way.
And then, there’s that beautiful Sunday drive.
I had the joy of joining you and Prerna a few times for your Sunday tea outings, but I feel especially blessed to have been with you on your last one—25th May, 2025. We drove to ATS, sipping hot chai in clay pots, “kulhads” enjoying the breeze and those light, carefree chuckles in the back seat with Prerna. You asked to play a devotional song of Nityananda Baba, and as it flowed through the car, a sense of peace settled in. I can’t explain the feeling in words—the awe, the stillness. And now, as that same song plays while I write this, the high notes overwhelm me, and tears well up… because I realise that was your last Sunday outing. And the day you left us… was a Sunday too.
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Every Sunday at 5 p.m., Prerna misses those chai dates with you. Every phone call from the office brings tears to Pankaj’s eyes. Nitya and Neal are still trying to process the immense loss of their most loving dadaji. And the entire family feels the weight of your absence especially mummy.
I speak for myself in this eulogy, but I see the grief in every empty, searching eye. You filled these eyes with love, assurance, guidance, and a sense of belonging. And while you may have left this world, you will continue to live on in all of us—in every achievement, every celebration, every quiet moment when we feel your presence.
You lived a beautiful, wholesome life, Papa. And we will carry your light forward—with love, with gratitude, and with reverence.
~Shreeja (Your “badi bahu”)
A inspiring true tribute to papa or father in law
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