She is 75 now, but to me Ranju is still impossible to forget: quiet, watchful, disciplined, and somehow always in command. She married young and left for England while the rest of us were still in Kampala, Uganda, and for years I struggled to put into words what made her so memorable. Then the memories came back. I was about 12 or 13, forever sneaking around in search of food between meals, and there she would be, standing guard with her unshakable rules: three meals a day, nothing in between. Even the beds she made were off limits until bedtime, so perfectly arranged that no one dared disturb them. At the time it was exasperating. Now it feels oddly tender, the first glimpse of the woman who would spend her life caring for everyone around her in her own steadfast way.
She helped raise us, and in many ways she became one of the steady forces that shaped our family. Ranju has always been the quiet one, never the loudest voice in the room, but often the wisest. She has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know. To us, she is the family’s unofficial doctor, always ready with an Ayurvedic remedy, a home cure, or a piece of practical advice. More than that, she is a woman of deep faith, and her kindness shows itself not in grand gestures, but in the small, constant acts of care that have defined her whole life.
When I was diagnosed with cancer, Ranju stepped towards me without hesitation. I never had to explain what I needed, and I never had to ask. At the same time, my wife Harsha was in hospital with serious health problems of her own, while I was being taken from one appointment, test, and treatment to the next. It was a time when illness seemed to swallow every corner of our lives. Those were frightening, exhausting days, and there were moments when the future felt unbearably uncertain. In the middle of all that fear, just knowing Ranju was only a phone call away gave me real comfort and strength.
I would often go to her house just to sit with her for a while, to talk, to hear a little family gossip, and, of course, to drink one of her wonderful cups of masala tea. Sometimes I stayed for lunch or dinner, and she would quietly make sure the food was right for me: less spice, more soup, more vegetables, always thinking about what my body could manage while I was going through treatment. It was never anything dramatic, just the sort of gentle, practical care that asks for no praise and yet means everything when you are unwell. She always smiled, but behind that smile I could see how deeply she worried for me. My brother-in-law, Ashwin, was much the same: always welcoming, always generous, and another steady shoulder to lean on when life felt too heavy. Ranju and Ashwin were married in Kampala in 1970. He had seen a photograph of her and travelled from England, by way of his family home in Mombasa, already certain in his heart before they had even met. Arranged marriages were, and still are, common in many Indian families, but theirs grew into a partnership of deep companionship and endurance. Ashwin passed away in 2022, leaving a silence that is still felt among us. He was a deeply knowledgeable man, especially when it came to history, and conversations with him could go on for hours, often turning into lively debates or thoughtful discussions. I miss those moments with him very much, and I know Ranju feels that loss even more deeply. They were together for fifty-two years. That is not simply a length of time, but a whole lifetime shared.
What has always astonished me about Ranju is that, even through love, loss, and all the demands of family life, she has never stopped caring for others. However much was asked of her at home, she somehow still found room for the rest of us. Hardly a day passes without a phone call. Sometimes she rings twice, simply to ask, “Are you alright?” On the surface it is such a small question, but when it comes from Ranju it carries years of love, loyalty, and devotion. Her concern for her younger siblings has never faded. She stood beside us through Harsha’s long illness, through the many trials our family has faced, and through my own battle with cancer.
Yet for all the comfort she has given others, Ranju has had her own share of sorrow and responsibility. She cared for a husband with heart problems, raised two wonderful daughters, and devoted herself to a son with additional needs. A life like that is built on sacrifice, patience, and countless daily acts that often go unseen. It also brings worry, tiredness, and heartache, much of which she has carried quietly.
Now in her early seventies, Ranju seems more fragile than the sister I remember from years ago, especially as she lives with the loss of her beloved husband, Ashwin. And yet whenever I visit, I am met with the same warmth and affection. The kettle goes on, food appears on the table, and before long she is asking how everyone else is doing. That is who she is. Even in grief, even with her own worries, she turns naturally towards others. She is not someone who speaks easily about her troubles. More often, she carries them quietly and keeps going, still loving, still giving, still putting others first.
Ranju holds a very special place in my heart, and in the hearts of all my siblings, not just because she is our elder sister, but because she has loved us so steadily throughout our lives.
The best way I can describe Ranju is this: she asks for very little, expects even less, and never stops giving to the people she loves.
I treasure our daily phone calls. Sometimes we speak for only a few minutes, sometimes longer, but I always come away feeling comforted. During my illness, that meant more to me than I can say. Her love did not take away what I was going through, but it helped me through it.
Ranju has always been there for all of us. She asks for very little, gives so much, and never stops thinking about her family. I feel very lucky to have a sister like her. Her love and constant support have been among the great strengths in my life, and I will always be grateful for them.
Leave a Reply