‘People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.’
My mother often recited this Maya Angelou quote to me verbatim while I was growing up, always followed by, ‘Just look at your dada, Maana! He never has a bad word to say about anyone, he goes out of his way, above and beyond, to help everyone he comes across, and on top of all that, he makes people feel safe, valued, loved. That’s the kind of person I want you to be’. Then, in Hindi and usually under her breath, she would add, ‘God forbid, if anything were to happen to him tomorrow, do you know how many people would come to his funeral? Thousands!’
As I got older, and even closer to my Dada, just the distant thought of a life without him was enough to make me cry on the spot, every time. I regularly implored him to clean and reorganise his home office, which, unsurprisingly to all those who knew him, he was working in until the very end. ‘Just throw all of it away when I’m gone!’ he would say in Gujarati, a big smile across his face - as there often was. Unable to help myself, I would start sobbing. He used to half-jokingly tell me that he’ll stick around just long enough to see me get married. I would burst into tears then, too.
Now, he won’t even be around to see me graduate from university in the summer.
Last week, on Saturday 17 October, I spoke at my Dada’s funeral. There were only thirty of us in attendance, as per Covid-19 guidelines. But I know that many of you loved him. As a family, we have quite literally received thousands of condolences from across the globe for our tragic, unexpected loss. We are sincerely grateful, beyond words. It is comforting to think about how widely adored he was. I truly hope he knew just how much.
For those who loved my Dada but could not be with us at the funeral, for those who did not know my Dada but wish they had gotten the chance, and for those who are simply wondering whether or not it is possible to do justice to a man who deserved the whole world in a eulogy limited to two minutes (it isn’t!), here is a transcript of what I said:
Earlier this week, when my family and I were planning my beautiful Dada’s funeral, I immediately knew I wanted to be one of his six pallbearers, and to deliver a eulogy in his honour. The thought of volunteering to openly grieve like this is very unsettling to me, but I am trying to set my discomfort aside. I know that my Dada was deeply loved and respected by everyone who was blessed to have known him in any capacity during his 77 years, including all of you, and it is said that grief shared is made lighter. I will try anything that might ease my burden, because I have never felt heartbreak as fierce as this before.
I will never be able to find the words to express every single one of the hundreds of things that my Dada is to me, but that’s okay. I think he knew, for the most part. He was my anchor, one of my favourite people in the whole wide world, and I know I am truly fortunate to see him in my own dad in so many ways. I have always been so proud to be D. R. Shah’s granddaughter - his first grandchild - this genuinely good, pure man who always radiated love, and will be so dearly missed for his laughter, kindness and compassion. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be like my Dada, and trying to make him similarly proud of me.
He loved to tell us, ‘Don’t worry, be happy! Heaven is not going to fall’. But it does feel like heaven has come crashing down. Without him, this world feels wrong, our family feels untethered, and I keep looking at the front door, waiting and waiting for something that is never going to happen. But for the rest of my days, through the many lessons he taught me (and the mini-me he made in my dad!) my Dada will be my guiding light, and I will forever be his Laadki Dikri.
Dada, have mane tamara sathe vat kar vi che. Mari vari che, tamne, ‘Don’t worry, be happy,’ keva mate. Tame chinta nahi karta. Hu badha nu dhyan rakhis, pota nu pan, jevu tame sikhvadyu chhe. Tamari Jyotsna, tamaro Jago, tamari Nami Senior nu dhyaan tamari Nami Junior rakhse. Dhyaan ane hu Vihana, Virina, Karina, ane Heyan ne tamari badhi varta ke su. Ane have thi, hu tamara mate pag hala vanu bandh karidais, raate suvani pehla badha daravajao ane bario ne check kari ne rakhis, bolta bolta has vanu bandh karis, ane hasta hasta bol vanu bandh karidais. ‘Talking? No laughing. Laughing? No talking.’ I love you, Dada. Tamari bau yaad aav se.
— In loving memory of D. R. Shah, 5 April 1943 - 7 October 2020
Devoted husband to Jyotsna, father to Jigar, Hardik, and Hema, father-in-law to Namita, Heeral, and Manish, and grandfather to Maansi, Dhyaan, Vihana, Virina, and Karina
