எல்லோருமே வாழ்ந்து விட்டுப் போய் விடுவார்கள்தான். ஆனால் சிலர்தான் எப்போதும் நமது மனங்களில் நிரந்தரமாக குடியேறிக் கொள்வார்கள். அப்படிப்பட்ட ஒருவர்தான் ரங்கா மாமா.. இந்த அற்புதமான பாசக்கார மனிதர் குறித்த ஒரு நினைவலை இது..

A tribute to a man who lived for others 

Some people pass through our lives like a brief season. 

Some remain like a tree that gives shade. 

But a rare few become the quiet strength of an entire family. 

My Ranga Mama was one such soul. 

April 6 is not just another date in the calendar for me. It is the day my beloved maternal uncle left this world. Every year when this day arrives, memories return like a silent tide, filling my heart with both gratitude and longing. 

In many ways, he was more than a father to me. 

From childhood itself, his presence surrounded our lives with warmth and security. He was not the kind of uncle who appeared only during festivals or family gatherings. He lived among us, cared for us, guided us, and protected us through every stage of life. 

The bond between my father and my maternal uncle was extraordinary. Though they were brothers-in-law, their closeness was deeper than that of many brothers. Even today I can hear my father’s affectionate voice calling out, “Ranga… Ranga… Ranga…” That call itself carried the warmth of their relationship. 

They shared life like companions — discussing everything, laughing together, and standing beside each other through every moment. Their conversations still echo in our ears. 

In our town, my uncle was respectfully known as Guruswamy. 

This title is not easily earned. It is given to those who have completed eighteen pilgrimages to the sacred Sabarimala Temple with strict spiritual discipline. My uncle reached that milestone with unwavering devotion. Yet his journey did not stop there. 

Until the end of his life, he had travelled to Sabarimala more than forty times. 

His devotion to Lord Ayyappa was deep and sincere. But what made his spirituality truly beautiful was the compassion that lived within it. 

Traditionally, many believe that women should not participate in certain Ayyappa-related rituals during their menstruation period. Once, when he returned from Sabarimala and was distributing the sacred water he had brought, I hesitated to receive it. 

I told him softly that I should not touch it. 

He looked at me with affection and said words that I will never forget: 

“You are my child. There is no untouchability between us. Take it and receive the blessing.” 

In that moment I understood his faith. For him, devotion was not about exclusion. It was about love, humanity, and the purity of the heart. 

The year he completed his eighteenth Sabarimala pilgrimage and became a Guruswamy, he organised a journey for our entire extended family. Nearly forty or fifty relatives travelled together in a bus. 

And he did something extraordinary — he bore all the expenses himself. 

That journey became unforgettable for everyone who went along. The prayers, the laughter, the shared meals, and the stories along the road created memories that remained for years. 

That single journey became the beginning of something bigger. 

In the years that followed, he began organising pilgrimages and tours regularly. Gradually it developed into a professional travel service. Yet it never lost its warmth and personal touch. 

Anyone who travelled with him once would never miss the next journey. 

His trips were not ordinary tours; they were experiences. He knew every small detail about the places we visited — their history, their spiritual significance, and their cultural stories. 

Listening to him during travel felt like learning from a living encyclopedia of faith and culture.

Because of him, I had the opportunity to see many places across South India — waterfalls, mountains, temples, and sacred towns. 

Even today, when I think about the travels of my childhood, almost every place carries his presence. 

The places remain in our memories. 

But he remains in our hearts. 

During my pregnancy, his affection became even more visible. He treated me like a small child. He would call me home, cook food himself, and serve it patiently in small portions until he felt satisfied that I had eaten enough. 

His joy did not come from eating — it came from watching others eat happily. 

Nearly twenty-five years ago, society was quick to question newly married women about children. Even a year’s delay could bring endless questions. 

But my uncle stood beside me with faith instead of fear. 

He climbed the sacred hill temple at Sholingur Narasimha Swamy Temple and prayed sincerely for me. Climbing the hill itself is not easy, yet he went further and circumambulated the temple 108 times, praying for my wellbeing and for the blessing of a child. 

Such was the depth of his love. 

I have always loved mangoes — whether raw or ripe. Whenever mangoes arrived at home, he would cut them carefully and place them before me. Watching me eat them happily gave him immense satisfaction. 

And this love was not limited to me alone. 

Since he remained unmarried, he became the father figure for all his sisters’ children. 

He carried babies in his arms, guided growing children, and later cared for the next generation as well. Sometimes his words sounded strict, but behind them there was always affection. 

His intention was never to hurt us — only to make us stronger. 

His generosity was legendary. 

If a fruit seller came with a basket, he would buy the entire basket instead of a few kilograms. Then he would distribute everything among relatives and neighbours. 

Sometimes he would gather everyone together and cook a large pot of biryani. Watching others eat happily was his greatest satisfaction. 

He was also a passionate traveller and pilgrim. From Kanyakumari in the south to Kashmir in the north, he had explored much of India. 

During these journeys he collected sacred mementos — rare divine stones and spiritual keepsakes that he treasured deeply. Many of them remain with us even today, silent reminders of his devotion. 

We never imagined that cancer would take him away from us so suddenly. 

The news reached me when I was on election duty. During a short break I checked my phone and saw a message from my brother. Instead of calling me, he had sent a message, knowing that a sudden call might panic me during duty. 

But the moment I read it, my heart sank. 

I arranged for someone to take my place and rushed there as quickly as I could. 

The sight that awaited me was something I had never imagined. 

Some losses leave us speechless. 

People like him are rare. Only when God blesses a family deeply does such a soul become part of it. 

He was not merely our uncle. 

He was our protector, our guide, our travel companion, our spiritual teacher, and often truly our father. 

Even today, very few people take responsibility for their sisters’ children the way he did. But my Ranga Mama extended the same love not only to our generation but also to our children. 

On this remembrance day, words still fail to express how deeply we miss him. 

But one truth remains. 

From him we learned what love means. 

From him we learned what family means. 

From him we learned what devotion means. 

Time moves forward. 

Years pass silently. 

Yet some footsteps never fade. 

A man called Guruswamy by the town… 

A hand cutting mango slices with affection… 

A heart that found joy only in feeding others… 

These memories remain like lamps that never go out. 

And as long as they glow in our hearts, 

Ranga Mama has not left us. 

He simply lives 

in every act of kindness we remember from him. 

Some people leave this world quietly — but the love they give continues to travel through generations.

(About the Author: Durgadevi V, Graduate Teacher, GHS Nesal, Tiruvannamalai District)