It was Sept ’08 when I heard Dilip was ‘not keeping well’. A few enquiries revealed my worst fears – that he was virtually immobile and cancer had eaten into his colon and intestines.

A flood of memories, pain for not having seen him in a year, reflections on his years of influence on me, guilt again at never being able to emulate even a tiny spark of his goodness, they all came back, and refused to go away ..

My story with him is not different from those of many others who knew him.

It was almost 20 years ago on the IIT campus in Chennai that I had first heard of Dilip – a professor in our humanities department, a blind man, often smiling, talking, holding on to someone’s shoulders, often around a group of students and odd-looking ‘outsiders’. You could see him on campus sometimes, usually around the tea shop or in his noisy office – his gang of followers around him, reading or debating on politics, nature, history, psychology or cricket. At first he was a curiosity, someone to spend time between classes with over a cup of tea, debating on topics of cursory interest and no consequence. Many of my friends dismissed him as an unrepentant socialist, not able to place his pre-conceived notions in a changing India.

The class he taught on the history of Indian Nationalism was a revelation for me. Not in its content as much as in the way Dilip conducted the class. History was a debate for him, a discussion, not a conclusion and a record of facts. That can be a shocker for someone who’s just come out of the Indian high school system. His socialist leanings were obvious, mostly as a backdrop to his thoughts rather than an obvious choice of philosophy. He allowed you to have your own point of view, sometimes correcting your facts, sometimes building on your ideas. There was clearly more to this man than the buzz surrounding him.

I started frequenting his office more often, sometimes borrowing his books, sometimes seeking his help or influence. Occasionally, I would accompany him on his numerous social jaunts – mostly to the teashop – sometimes to a slum or a hospital or a school where you could see him in action – educating some, helping out others. His students would generally lend a hand, the more active ones often leading the charge. He was completely selfless, never saving a rupee more than he needed. Almost all his income was distributed among the many that he felt needed it more than he did. It was always uncomfortable. “Each one needs to help himself” I’d say. “Yes, but some need a little help before they can do it themselves. It multiplies fast” he’d reply.

After graduating, I decided to go to the United States to study further and grow professionally. It was a choice he’d seen many others make. He took it in his stride. I remember him saying good-bye to me in the IIT campus. He had got me a little packet of ‘chikki’ – a sweet snack I relished. We kept in touch often over email (one of his student friends would read it out to him and type his response back) and on occasional visits to India. It was amazing that he’d keep in touch with so many of us, treating each as an individual, a dear friend, whose every personal and family detail he’d know. Of course all this was while he continued to make new friends on campus.

When I made the move back to India in ’02, it seemed Bangalore would be much closer to see Dilip more often. It was not to be. We would see each other only a couple of times before I heard of his illness.

I finally made it to Chennai in Dec ’08. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. Dilip was in bed, small and frail, unable to speak, unable to bear the pain that came with the tumor in his body. It was difficult to see the person who never once complained in the 18 years I knew him, being unable to talk without pain.

A few weeks later, I heard he passed away. His thoughts and words echo in my mind. His short life remains an example of how one man with so little at his disposal can do so much good in so little time.

Dilip, you will never be forgotten, your thoughts and actions forever an influence on many young minds that had the good fortune to know you,

Ajit Rao,
Class of ’92, IIT Madras
Bangalore, India