It’s strange, isn’t it, how someone so full of life one day can suddenly be… gone? Just like that. Like a light switch flipped off, or the last page of a good book you didn’t want to end. And yet, while the book may have ended, you’re left holding it in your hand, unwilling to put it down.
That’s what losing a friend feels like.
With my dear friend Prashant Kamath passing on yesterday, it isn’t just his presence that’s left a void—it’s his quiet humour, his ever-ready cigarette, that deep voice that sang old Hindi songs with the passion of Rafi and the mischief of Kishore, and the way he stood by you, no matter what. And believe me, I’ve had many a “no matter what” in my time.
There was this one time many decades ago, back when the world was being particularly unkind to me—I think I’d done something that ruffled more feathers than a chicken in a tornado. Everyone was after me. And there was Prashant, standing quietly beside me at a society meeting, puffing away, eyes twinkling, saying to the members with just his presence, “You mess with him, you mess with me.” He didn’t need to say much. That’s what good friends are like—they speak volumes in silence.
And then those Rotary meetings! We’d come back home late at night in my Tata Estate, still laughing at some terrible joke someone had cracked, usually us. It was during those drives that we birthed our grand plan to open a hotel. It wasn’t going to be five-star or anything fancy, but it had heart. And it had rava dosa. I remember him once telling a guest, with a straight face, “We only opened this place so Bob could get his daily dose of dosa.” And then he’d laugh, the kind of laugh that made even the dosa felt it was part of a private joke.
And the music! You’d be having a perfectly quiet evening, and suddenly, from somewhere in the background, would come his baritone voice and your heart would pause, listen, and then hum along.
I can’t be at his cremation. Geography and distance have played a cruel trick. But who says you have to be there to say goodbye? Every memory we’ve made is a farewell and a thank you wrapped in nostalgia. He leaves behind more than ashes—he leaves echoes. Laughter tucked into conversations, loyalty folded into friendship, and a voice that refuses to go silent.
You see, with true friends, there’s no “The End.” Even after they breathe their last, they leave behind stories, inside jokes, half-finished plans, and that one seat at the table which no one else dares take. They wait for you on the other side, perhaps with a cigarette in hand and a rava dosa in the other.
Till then, old friend… keep the song going…!