My earliest memory of my uncle Suri (Suryanarayan G. Hegde), whom we fondly called Suri Doddappa, my father’s elder brother, is of him gifting me a beautiful toy melamine tea set with pretty pink flowers and green leaves on it. I must have been three or four years old at the time, and I have fond memories of playing with it through my childhood. He and his American wife, Mary, had flown to India for the first time after their wedding, and the entire extended family had gathered in our paternal ancestral home to welcome them. For that era, ours was a remarkably cosmopolitan and forward-thinking family, embracing brides from different communities, even though we came from a deeply traditional Hindu household.
Although he lived in New York, my uncle became a prominent figure in my growing years. He visited us every year during his annual trips to India and took a keen interest in our studies and careers. My uncle Suri loved to walk, and as my sister said in her eulogy on our family WhatsApp group, we never quite knew what lasted longer, the walks or the talks. He always brought me a memorable gift. My first calculator, with a little inbuilt address book, was from him, and he teased me saying that I could save all my friends’ numbers in it, his eyes lighting up with a small chuckle. On one of his visits, he brought us a jar of Skippy peanut butter, and that became our first taste of commercially made peanut butter as children in pre-liberalisation India.
On the day of my wedding, I heard that his flight from New York had been delayed, and I wondered if he would make it in time for the rituals. But as soon as I entered the venue, there he was, my dearest uncle, sitting in the front row next to my grandfather. He had come straight from the airport and later told me that he would never have missed my wedding day.
When Hari was born and my uncle came to see the newborn, he was the one who told me to cherish those early days, saying that before I knew it, Hari would be off to school. I had mentioned this in one of Hari’s birthday posts, and those words came back to me so clearly on his first day of school when I lived through the moment myself. Hari told me yesterday that he remembers sitting on his lap and listening to him explain how a light bulb works, during a trip to my grandmother’s home in Siddapur when he was in grade one. It is one of those luminous memories that has stayed with him.
He was very happy about my work and had been an avid reader of Divine Taste since its inception. He often spoke about it whenever he visited, and over the years our conversations naturally drifted toward all things food. Although he was a physicist living in busy New York City, he always found time to cook and experiment in the kitchen. He once told me how much he enjoyed making dahi with turmeric and different spices. During one of his visits, he brought me annatto seeds and eagerly asked me to create new dishes with their natural colour. And later, just before his health began to decline, he encouraged me to visit New York and explore its vibrant eateries for my research and inspiration.
The words that come to mind when I think of him are gentle, brilliant, soft-spoken, curious, simple, disciplined, and affectionate. He was always impeccably dressed, neat and composed. For someone with more than twenty patents to his name, he carried himself with such humility and ease. His love for children, his long walks, and his deep appreciation for life are what I will always remember.
Yesterday, when I heard the news of his passing from my mother, I felt an ache that is difficult to put into words. I reminded myself that we are all transient beings, walking this earth for only a short while, with no certainty of what tomorrow may bring. Kindness is one of the few things that endures, and my uncle lived that truth effortlessly. Life goes on, but his life, his simplicity, and the warmth he carried into every interaction will always be remembered with great affection by all of us who knew him.
