J.Srinivasan/ Srinivasan Ji /Srinivasan Sir /Cheenu Uncle

Yen-Ya/ Yaar

Papa/ Appa/ Popsi

Superthatha/ Thatha/ Naanu

Athimber/ Peripa/ Chachu/ Chitappa/ Cheenu Mama

He had a thousand names, hundreds of roles, and plenty of duties. Yet he was, as I saw it, always himself.

I was born when he was thirty years old. With each passing year, month, day, and sometimes every moment, I discovered something new or learned more about him.

My earliest memory of him is via a photograph. In that picture, I am on the windowsill, with the iron bars gripped tight in my hands, and my face loaded with an anger unsuitable for a 3-year old.

Years later, he told me I was angry because everyone had surrounded my newborn sister. I had insisted that she be sent back to wherever she came from — only then, I said, I would leave the iron bars and come down the windowsill. Later, someone from the family, perhaps mom’s aunt, offered to give my sister in my lap. It was then that I let go of the bars.

Even though I have a faint memory of everything else that day, I remember the moment I held my baby sister. It was as if my anger, envy, cry for attention were still at the window.

I sat on a stool with the feather-like life on my lap and an explosion of love in my heart. It’s my first memory of love — an instinct to care for someone, my sister.

He was too, a loving, doting, and in an unfortunate way, a submitting brother. He loved too hard, gave too much, and received nothing but countless pieces of his own heart.

His siblings and their families dismissed his love. They called it ‘bachpana’, childish.