ShoutYourHeadOff

Category: Stories

Longer personal narratives and memories worth telling

  • Leicester — A Homecoming

    Leicester — A Homecoming

    I have visited Leicester many times since I left at the end of 1979, but those trips had always had a reason behind them — a wedding, a birthday, an invitation, or a funeral. I never really felt I was going home. I had arrived in Leicester on 19 June 1972, after being exiled from Uganda, and spent seven years working and living there with my parents and two younger siblings. It became my second hometown after Kampala.

    This time was different. On 18 July 2026, I took a coach to spend a couple of days with my younger brother, Jitu. There was no formal occasion pulling me back, no timetable set by someone else, no family duty to fulfil. I was returning simply because Leicester mattered to me, and because I wanted to walk again through a place that had shaped a part of my life.

    But I also went with a question in my mind. Could I live here again?

    I arrived late in the evening, so Jitu, his wife and I spent the night catching up on the year that had passed since we had last met. The next day, Saturday, we visited two temples. The first was the Hanumanji Temple, which is relatively new in Leicester. Being a Saturday, an auspicious day for offering prayers to Hanumanji, the temple was packed with devotees. I was not just visiting out of curiosity. I wanted to see how it would fit into my life if I came back. The answer was clear. Many of the people there were older, like me, and the temple served them in ways that went beyond prayer. It was a place to belong.

    We then made our way to Leicester’s main Indian shopping area, Belgrave Road and Melton Road, where the shops, restaurants and gold jewellers have long been part of the city’s familiar landscape. I wanted to walk along the same road I had walked during my first seven years in Leicester. As we visited different shops, I kept looking around, amazed by how much the place had changed. The language around me was Gujarati. People were speaking the language I grew up with, the language I think in, the language that is largely absent from where I live now.

    It was a beautiful sunny day, so we walked to the Sai Temple. Along the way, I kept reliving my life in Leicester. There was the Brahm Samaj building, where I had spent many happy occasions with my family, and later with my wife, Harsha. Not far from where I had lived. I also saw a church whose name had changed, now used as a venue for events. I remembered attending my niece’s wedding there many years ago. Then a sadder memory surfaced — my maternal uncle, who had fallen and been badly hurt nearby. Happiness and sadness, side by side in the same place. Leicester has always been like that for me.

    I had once worked at a factory not far from the city centre. I saw the shortcuts that used to lead to it, though the factory had not existed for a very long time. And I thought of Abbey Park, where I used to secretly meet my first and only girlfriend. I wondered where life had taken her.

    We turned back and crossed the dual carriageway. Along the way, I deliberately took a turn towards Garfield Street, where we had owned our first home. On the way, I noticed a mural painted across a two-storey wall showing two Bollywood stars. I had to stop and take a photograph. I also took a picture of the front door and the street sign. What surprised me most was how much had disappeared. The terraced houses on the opposite side had been demolished. The small factory at the end of my old street had gone, replaced by retirement homes.

    We left Garfield Street and made our way back along Belgrave Road. I walked slowly, remembering a time when people I knew would stop to say hello, or when I could walk into a shop and chat to an owner I had known from the past. No one stopped me now. Many of the old shops no longer existed.

    On Sunday, I spent the morning with my maternal cousin at his new house. Remembering the past is always nostalgic, and somehow enjoyable too. By the time we had had some tea and talked non-stop for an hour and a half, it was time to leave. I had arranged to meet someone I had not seen in a very long time.

    A Friend From My First Days in Leicester

    Barry was the first white man to show me the ropes when I started work at the factory in 1972. He respected me for who I was — an immigrant from Uganda who did not know how anything worked in this country. That meant more than I can easily say. Over the years, I taught him and his wife to make potato curry and puri. He calls me Bhai — the Gujarati word for brother. We share a love of heavy rock music and Indian food. He is retired now, mostly, shooting vermin on farms for a part-time living. He has a family and is a grandfather.

    We met at the Woolpack pub, which I believe was his local. Apart from losing his hair and putting on a little weight, he was exactly as I remembered him. After a hug, we sat outside over a couple of beers and talked about the past, the present, and what life had brought us since those days. The curry and puri came up, of course. Forty-seven years had passed since we last sat together, and the hour we had felt far too short. Barely enough time to catch our breath.

    That hour with Barry was the happiest moment of the whole trip. I am going back for more. Next time I will meet his wife and possibly his family too.

    I had a coach to catch at 5.30 pm. Jitu picked me up, and after a short stop, he took me to St Margaret’s Bus Station. As I waited for the coach, I was not thinking about what I was leaving behind. I was thinking about what I might be coming back to.

    Leicester has walking groups, parks with activities for older people, temples that serve the community in ways that go beyond worship, and a social life that simply does not exist where I live now. Most of all, it has Jitu. Coming back would bring me closer to my youngest sibling, the brother I walked to school in Kampala.

    I am not certain yet. But standing at that bus station, I felt more sure than I have in a long time that Leicester is where my final chapter should begin.

  • Warwick Castle — A Day That Was Never Going to Be Long Enough

    Warwick Castle — A Day That Was Never Going to Be Long Enough

    On Saturday morning, after a breakfast big enough to last the day, my friend Jessie and I caught the X18 bus to spend the day at Warwick Castle in Warwick.. Schools had broken up for the summer the day before, so we knew it would be busy. Our plan was to get there early. When we arrived, the queue was already long, but it was moving.

    We had booked tickets online, which saved both money and time. The bus dropped us opposite Castle Lane, and from there it was a short walk through the car park to the entrance. On either side of the arched entranceway, large maps showed the scale of what lay ahead. This was not going to be a quick visit.

    And it did not disappoint. The circular tower was the first thing I saw, looming high into the sky. A bridge led to the castle entrance, and above the huge doorway there was a clock and a portcullis-style gate. I could immediately picture how it would have been lowered to keep enemies at bay. That is what old castles do to me — they make my imagination fill in what the stone no longer shows.

    Warwick Castle has stood in some form for over a thousand years. It began as an Anglo-Saxon fortification in 914, was rebuilt as a Norman fortress after the Conquest, expanded and fought over through centuries of war, transformed into a grand stately home, and eventually opened to the public in 1978. Walking through it, you feel every one of those layers.

    Inside Warwick Castle

    We made our way up a stone staircase to the Great Hall, which now serves as the armoury. I could have spent an hour in that room alone. The collection was vast — bows and arrows, spears, lances, knives, swords, long shotguns with bayonets. There were early pistols and what I learned was a precursor to a grenade launcher, which apparently had a tendency to blow up in the holder’s hands. That made them unpopular, unsurprisingly, and examples are now rare. Two life-size display horses stood with figures in full suits of armour. I looked at them and tried to imagine the weight of all that metal on a man’s body. Awesome is a word I do not use often, but the armoury earned it.

    From there we moved through the castle’s grand rooms. Each one had something that surprised me. The Cedar Drawing Room, the largest, was originally a ballroom, with panelling from the 1670s. The Green Drawing Room had a ceiling replicated from a Roman temple in Palmyra, Syria — a temple that was destroyed in the 2015 conflict, making this ceiling the only surviving version. That stopped me. A room in an English castle holding the last trace of something ancient from the other side of the world.

    But the detail that caught me most was smaller and quieter. In one of the rooms, there were a couple of Japanese dish bowls, beautifully made, which would have been used for guests to wash their hands. The quality of the workmanship was extraordinary. I stood there looking at them, thinking about the hands that had made them and the hands that had used them, centuries apart. It is always the small things that stay with me.

    The Queen Anne Bedroom held the bed in which Queen Anne is believed to have died in 1714, adorned with red velvet and gold floral silk. It had been gifted to the castle by King George III. The Blue Boudoir, originally a dressing room, had been converted by Daisy Greville, a socialite turned activist, into her private writing room. It also housed waxwork figures of Henry VIII and his six wives. Every room had its own character, its own story, and we spent more time inside than we had planned.

    Eventually we made our way outside. The Time Tower had two rooms showing short films about the castle’s eleven hundred years of history. It was a warm day and the crowds were large, which meant queuing for everything. We stopped for a short lunch break, which turned out to be a mistake — not for me, but for Jessie. He had wanted to see the trebuchet show, and we missed it. Too much time spent inside the castle. I was not sorry about that, but he was.

    There was still plenty to see. The War of the Roses live show was next, and the queue had already started forming a good hour before it began. A long wait on our feet, but it was worth it. When the time came, the crowd surged forward across the bridge to River Island. There was a huge arena with stands on both sides. The show lasted about forty-five minutes and was spectacular — trained actors performing jousting, sword fights, and stunts, with fireworks and speakers describing the history of the conflict. The horsemanship was excellent. It felt less like entertainment and more like a window into something real. The story behind the Wars of the Roses is a history book in itself, and I would rather the reader imagined what it must have been like all those hundreds of years ago than have me try to summarise it here.

    About half an hour after that, the falconry show began — an endangered species display that was both beautiful and sobering. We stayed for it, and then stayed until Warwick Castle its gates.

    By the time we left, we had been there the best part of a full day and it still did not feel long enough. We caught the bus back to Stratford-upon-Avon, had our final meal at the hotel, and packed up for the journey home on Sunday. The train back to Marylebone got us there by mid-afternoon.

    Warwick Castle is one of those places that gives you more than you expect. I went hoping for old stone and a bit of history. What I got was a thousand years of it, a room full of weapons that made me glad I live in this century, a Japanese bowl that made me think about craftsmanship and time, and a live battle that made me feel, just for a moment, what it might have been like to stand on that ground when it actually mattered.

    I would go back. There is more to see. There always is.

  • Stratford-upon-Avon — Visiting Shakespeare Country

    Stratford-upon-Avon — Visiting Shakespeare Country

    On Thursday, 16 July, my friend and I took the train to Stratford-upon-Avon. I had been looking forward to the trip. I enjoy literature, and who has not heard of Shakespeare? But I also had a quiet worry that it might be a damp squib — just a normal town with old buildings, trading only on its famous past.

    We left from Marylebone, changed at Leamington Spa, and arrived at about 3.45 pm. The journey took about two and a half hours with frequent stops, but I do not mind trains. They avoid the traffic, and there is something about watching the countryside pass that settles me.

    We checked into our hotel, which we had deliberately chosen to be close to the town centre, freshened up, and went exploring. Almost everything closed at around 5 pm, so the first evening was mainly about getting the feel of the place and working out how to make the most of Friday.

    My first impression was promising. The town felt compact, walkable, and full of hints that Shakespeare’s presence still shaped the streets around it. I was relieved. This was not a theme park. It felt like a real place that happened to hold an extraordinary history.

    On Friday, after a hearty breakfast, we made our way to the Shakespeare Visitor Centre. You could book tickets there for three attractions linked to Shakespeare. The centre itself had an exhibition — two rooms showing videos with quotes from his works, and displays of the clothing, money, pottery, paintings, and notebooks from his time. The exit led along a garden path to the house.

    Shakespeare’s birthplace stands on Henley Street. It is a sixteenth-century, half-timbered building, made with a wooden frame and materials like wattle and daub, stone, and timber. This is believed to be the house where William Shakespeare was born in 1564 and where he spent his childhood. His father, John Shakespeare, lived and worked there as a glove-maker and wool dealer, so it was both a family home and a place of business. As we walked through the rooms, that became easier to understand. There were domestic rooms showing how the family may have lived, and a workshop area connected to his father’s trade.

    What I found fascinating was the history of the house itself. After John Shakespeare died, William inherited the property, though by then he had moved elsewhere in Stratford. The house later passed through the Shakespeare and Hart families and was even used as an inn before it was bought and preserved in the nineteenth century after a public campaign. Walking through the low rooms and seeing the period furnishings made the history feel real, not just something written in a book.

    The exit led through a gift and book shop. Everything was Shakespeare and Stratford. My favourites, of course, were the books.

    Exploring Stratford-upon-Avon

    Next on our list was New Place.

    This is the site of the grand family home Shakespeare bought in 1597 when he became successful. He bought it for his wife and daughters, who lived there permanently, while he spent much of his time working in London. He returned for longer periods over the years and retired there completely around 1611. I had not known any of this before arriving in Stratford-upon-Avon.

    But the house is gone. It was demolished in 1759 by a later owner, a Reverend Francis Gastrell. One of the guides told us the story, and I found it extraordinary. The Reverend was apparently so annoyed by tourists peering into his garden to see Shakespeare’s mulberry tree, and so angry about paying tax on the property, that he razed the whole thing to the ground. I stood there thinking what a loss that was. I would have loved to see how it looked inside, how they lived. Instead, the footprint of the building is outlined in bronze on the ground to show its original scale. It was disappointing, but knowing the reason made it memorable.

    What was not disappointing were the gardens. I walked the entire path with my friend, though he was not especially interested in the literary meanings behind the sculptures. I was. I had to stop at each one, because there was a story behind every piece. Some of them did not look as though they had any particular features at first glance, but I was wrong. They were very intricately made. Amazing artwork, quietly placed, waiting for someone to look properly.

    Exploring Stratford-upon-Avon

    After New Place, we walked to Anne Hathaway’s Cottage in the hamlet of Shottery, about thirty minutes on foot from Stratford-upon-Avon town centre. Even from the roadside, it was not disappointing. We stopped at the coffee shop opposite for tea and cake before going in, which felt like the right way to approach a house that has been standing for over five hundred years.

    The idea of entering a building that old is what amazed me most. From the outside it looked substantial, but inside it was surprisingly small. I understand that rooms were added over the years, and the restorations had been tastefully and carefully done to reflect the period. Upstairs, steep and creaky wooden steps led us to the bedrooms, and to a room with a desk and chair from that era. On the desk were manuscripts, letters, and pieces of paper, all preserved to reflect the importance of not only Shakespeare himself but also the part Anne Hathaway played in his life. It was one of those moments where you stop thinking about history as something distant and start feeling it as something that happened in a room not much bigger than your own.

    By the time we left, we had walked a great deal. We called an Uber back to the hotel for a well-deserved rest. Later that evening, we went back into town for a traditional fish and chips at a place called The Chip Shed, which did not disappoint. After that, we retired to the hotel. Saturday was planned for Warwick Castle, and we needed the rest.

  • My Cancer Story — The One That Never Really Closes

    My Cancer Story — The One That Never Really Closes

    Closing this series about my cancer story, after nearly twenty years, is harder than I expected. In remembering what I went through, I reopened a wound I thought had long healed.

    On recall, so many people touched my life, and not honouring their quiet involvement would be an injustice. Not only to them, but to me too.

    Behind the immediate family members, my siblings, young and old, there was another set of hands. Wives and husbands. Some of those really wonderful people who helped heal me are not here anymore, and they are so sorely missed. Because it wasn’t just an “I’m here for you” thing. Physically and mentally, they gave up so much of their own time and personal life to stay true to me and Harsha, and for that, gratitude is not enough.

    I forget, even now, that everyone who came and went from my life in those tough years had a life too. Maybe they were battling their own demons but never letting on. When I was stuck in that maelstrom, I instinctively took care of me. Now I wonder what they gave up to be by my side.

    I truly feel that without the backbone of a complete family, my Cancer Story would never have seen the light of day. That complete family, if put to paper, would be like a roll call in a classroom — who is present, and who is not. Even now, as I write, names and places and hospitals keep popping their heads out and shouting, “What about me?”

    And with that, I am forever grateful that I am here to tell the tale that very nearly never happened.

  • My Cancer Story — Sumi, 1 Look Was All It Took

    My Cancer Story — Sumi, 1 Look Was All It Took

    Sumi During My Cancer

    My Cancer Story would not be complete without Sumi It only took one look. Wide eyes, fixed on you, not a word spoken. No reprimand, no raised voice — just those eyes. And every one of us knew exactly what it meant. We understood, and we got on with it.

    That was Sumi. Our eldest sister, Sumitra, though she was much more than that. Over the years she became our mentor and our second mother.

    She was an avid reader and a superb cook. I can still picture her in her favourite seat on the sofa, her pet parrot on her shoulder, working through a Sudoku or a word search. She collected recipes from newspapers and magazines over the years, and all of us were her guinea pigs! Spicy, sweet or savoury, it was cooked to perfection. But the food was never really the point. Everything she did, she did with love.

    Education came first in her world, and so did standing on your own two feet. She taught us household chores, small sewing repairs, how to cook simple food, so that one day we could take care of ourselves. You wouldn’t associate Sumi with sport, but she played hockey for her school, and badminton too. I remember all of us, siblings and the neighbours’ kids, playing in our yard.

    There was something the younger ones never knew. Sumi was born with some defect in her legs. I don’t know the name of the condition. But I remember a photo of her legs bandaged, and I found out later it was to straighten them. She never let on. She just got on with life, and it turned out well in the end. That was Sumi. Whatever she carried, she carried quietly.

    I could write about her endlessly. But it was during my cancer, and during Harsha’s illness, that I really understood who she was.

    In 2005, Harsha had a mini stroke — a TIA, they called it then. In the months after, something changed in the way she understood the world. She would hear how other people addressed someone, and take that name as her own. If she heard our son Mitesh called “Miteshbhai” — brother — then to Harsha he became her brother. Our daughter Rakhi became “Rakhiben,” a sister. Sumi, her sister-in-law, became “Sumifaiba” — aunt. My brother became an elder uncle. The whole family rearranged itself in Harsha’s mind.

    And she called me Dad. People tried to correct her, again and again. I never did. I called her Mum, right to the end. I still do, when I talk to my children.

    The first time Harsha called her “Sumifaiba,” at Sumi’s own house, was strange for all of us. None of us understood it — not Sumi, not Kishore her husband, not me. We put it down to a mind thing after her stroke, and accepted it. But I’ll never forget Sumi’s reaction. She didn’t correct her. She didn’t make it about herself. She just accepted her new name, and loved Harsha the same as always. To watch Sumi and Kishore afterwards, and the feelings that came with it, is something I have never forgotten.

    That was Sumi. Faced with something none of us understood, she just took it in her stride.

    When my own diagnosis came in 2007, she was ever present. Harsha needed someone she could talk to, and Sumi’s house became a place we visited often, sometimes at short notice. Sumi never refused. And she was doing all this while battling her own health, and nursing Kishore through his. You would never have known it. She was there for me, for Harsha, for her family, for anyone who needed her. She was just there. Always.

    Sumi passed during the first COVID lockdown. Losing someone in those days was hard — the distance, the restrictions, the things that couldn’t be done at the time. We have since been able to do right by her, but I’ll come to that later.

    For now, I just want to remember her as she was. One look. Wide eyes. No words needed. A sister who carried her own troubles quietly, and spent her life making sure everyone around her was looked after.

    She was our eldest sister. She was our second mother. And she is missed, every single day.

  • My Cancer Story — Supporting Family With Cancer From Abroad — My Powerful Sister Pratibha’s Inspiring Story

    My Cancer Story — Supporting Family With Cancer From Abroad — My Powerful Sister Pratibha’s Inspiring Story

    Supporting family with cancer from abroad is something my youngest sister Pratibha knew more about than anyone. Thousands of miles away in Canada, she found her own way to be there

    We grew up in Jinja, Bugerere, Iganga, and then Kampala. It always felt as though we were settling somewhere just as it was time to leave again. That is how life was then, following my father’s work. Keeping long-term friendships was difficult, and it was not always easy, especially as we got older and they began to matter more.

    Kampala was where we stayed the longest. Pratibha was seven then, and Jitu about three. We lived among sixteen families, and it felt like a small community. There were always children around, always something going on. Looking back now, I think those were simpler days, although we didn’t realise it at the time.

    That chapter ended abruptly. Idi Amin saw to that. In June 1972, we arrived in Leicester and started again. Pratibha and Jitu went to school, while I began work that September. Little did I know then that I would spend the next fifty years in employment — seven in Leicester and the rest, after I got married, in London.

    Between 1977 and 1979, Bipin, Pratibha, and I all got married, which took us to three different cities, all in the London area. When I think about it now, I notice something curious. Kampala, Leicester, London — there always seemed to be a seven-year pattern to our lives. I wonder sometimes if it means something, or whether it is just the way things fell.

    Supporting Family With Cancer From Abroad

    In 1989, Pratibha emigrated to Canada with her husband and son. A new venture, a new life. The distance between us grew, but the connection never did. It was a brave decision — leaving everything familiar behind to build a new life from scratch. Canada became her home, and she built a good life there. But distance has a way of making itself felt most sharply at the hardest moments.

    Years passed, as they do.

    When I was diagnosed with cancer, Pratibha was thousands of miles away. That distance felt very real at the time. I also knew she was not well herself. I had seen that when I visited her in 1993 with my wife and children. She was in hospital then, seriously ill with kidney failure. From that point on, her health became something she had to manage and live with every day. Over the years she endured long periods on dialysis before eventually receiving a kidney transplant. It took great courage and patience, and she bore it quietly.

    Because of all that, travelling to the UK to see me was simply not possible, and I understood completely. But she never stopped being there in the ways she could.

    She would call. Sometimes just for a few minutes. Sometimes longer. Just to ask how I was.

    It is difficult to explain what that meant at the time. When you are dealing with something like cancer, your mind goes in all directions. But hearing her voice would steady things, even if only for a short while. Distance suddenly felt smaller. The worries eased. You are reminded that you are not facing things alone.

    She had her own battles to deal with, and I knew that. But that never came before thinking of me and my family. That was just how she was.

    Looking back now, I realise that it was not about what she could or couldn’t do.

    It was simply that she was there.

    And in those days, that was enough.

    For anyone supporting family with cancer from abroad, Pratibha’s story will feel familiar.

    For anyone supporting a loved one through cancer from a distance, the Canadian Cancer Society offers guidance and resources at cancer.ca.

  • My Cancer Story — Jitu

    My Cancer Story — Jitu

    For me, Jitu (Jitendra) is like my own son. His part in my Cancer Story is well remembered. I have so many memories of him. I remember walking to school holding his hand, and it always made me feel proud. Jitu was a very active and intelligent child, and he has grown into a handsome young man with a lovely family of his own — his wife, Pragna, and their three children: Krish, the eldest son, Kiran, their daughter, and Ravi, the youngest son.

    We grew up together in Jinja and Kampala. The 1960s, when we were growing up, were very exciting times. Owning a television was rare, and that gave us the chance to spend so much time outdoors, playing near our home and going on little adventures. We would look for trees to climb so we could bring down guavas and small unripe mangoes, which tasted wonderfully tangy. Quite often, we would also go to the Museum in Kololo, Kampala. Alongside the traditional Ugandan arts and crafts on display, there were rocks in the grounds that we loved to climb. I still remember that we carved our names into those rocks, and sometimes I wonder if they are still there.

    There is one moment from Kampala I will never forget. We had finished school and were walking home. Jitu always held my hand. He gave me a letter from school, which I began to read, and momentarily let go. That moment will live with me until I die. He let go of my hand and ran across the road, and was hit by a Mercedes car. He was lucky in a sense, because he suffered a cut to the right side of his head just above the ear. The screams, the panic — it was all intense. I was scared and in tears. But how ironic that the driver turned out to be a doctor. He scooped up Jitu and drove us to the nearest hospital. Somehow my mother was informed — no mobile phones in those days — and she rushed to the hospital in hysterics. Her anger was understandable. Her youngest child involved in an accident. I have never forgotten it, nor forgiven myself for being irresponsible. Thankfully he recovered fully, but the now visible scar always refreshes the bad memory.

    In May 1972, my father received notice from the Ugandan Government telling him to quit Uganda within 90 days. After permission from the British Government, we all emigrated to England. A new and totally strange country, a different culture altogether, and on the horizon an immense learning curve that would test us all.

    We settled in Leicester, where Jitu still lives today. Our lives as siblings have seen enormous change, and Jitu, being the youngest, has watched everyone settle in different parts of the country, mostly in London and the surrounding counties.

    In 2007, when I was diagnosed with cancer, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jitu. I always felt, and still feel, that Jitu faces life a little more alone than the rest of us — the youngest, with everyone else scattered across the country. When the time came to tell him, I had to do it over the phone. Leicester felt very far away that day. I remember wishing I was there with him, face to face. Because I know Jitu — he would have held me, and we would have cried together. Sometimes that is all you need. And sometimes a phone line is just not enough.

  • My Cancer Story: Ranju

    My Cancer Story: Ranju

    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.