2001

November.

My terminal days had begun.

Dr. Mehta, my nephrologist, had reached the limits of what he could offer. He gave up.
But I didn’t.
I gave up the anger, not the fight.

Those were overactive, restless days. Bitterness crept in. I spoke to many people—reaching out with urgency and doubt, wondering if I would even make it back to India.

I called my classmate Rajan to seek a second opinion from his cousin, a doctor. He confirmed what I feared: the kidney failure was progressing. I reached out to my friend Julius, who arranged another consultation with his family physician. The verdict remained unchanged—renal function was deteriorating. I also spoke to Gilbert, a scientist at ISRO. He comforted me with calm, soothing words. Then I called my brother-in-law, Wilfred.

“Please return to India. Things are going to fall in line,” he said, with unwavering hope.

My wife was observing my agitated restlessness. She grew increasingly anxious. In her distress, she turned to her friend Sushila, who was staying with us and offering support. Years earlier, Sushila had saved my wife during a difficult episode in college. She and her twin sister now comforted my wife in every practical way possible. Their presence brought relief to both of us.

Sushila would prepare a spicy broth she called puzhi kulambu. She followed a special method and guarded a secret recipe. I often teased her cooking, but she took it in stride—understanding, perhaps, the deeper struggle behind my words.

Despite everything, I remained focused on my work. I completed my assignments on time. On November 16th—just three days before I was to leave for India—I went to the S&P office. I carried a heavy heart. I was about to leave behind a life in New York, cherished friends, and an unforgettable chapter.

I shared my condition with my supervisor—and then with my colleagues at S&P. The news shocked everyone.

Lana, a kind-hearted Russian colleague, burst into tears.

“You’ll come back a stronger man,” she cried. “My home is open to you—always.”

Jeffery, my functional head, reassured me:

“A vacancy will always remain open for your return.”

Gennady, my supervisor, added:

“Your contributions to the credit model function were instrumental.”

Robin and Ryan, my close associates, offered inspiring words. I had worked with exceptional individuals—memories of which I will cherish forever.

They prayed for my healing, and wished I would return to S&P as a healthy man. But in my heart, I had begun to lose hope.
I thought, There’s no survival. No return.
So, I remained silent. I couldn’t speak.

“This is a terminal disease. These are terminal days,” I told myself.

Still, I listened. I treasured their kindness. I cleared my dues and returned my S&P access card. The team gave me a “Get Well Soon” gift, filled with heartfelt messages. I said a long goodbye and thanked God for my time there.

Back home, my heart was pounding with emotion. I felt an emptiness settling in. That evening, some friends visited. They helped pack my few belongings. The next morning, two others arrived, loaded everything into a van, and drove it to New York City to ship it to India on a bill of lading.

That evening, more friends came—like a quiet, sorrowful crew of sailors bidding farewell. Most faces were pale and speechless. No one wanted to show their sorrow. I too remained silent, thinking, I may never see them again.

They gave me a card. Each one signed it with bright, encouraging notes—beautiful words. I accepted it humbly. My wife served them the leftover peanuts. It was a simple act, yet deeply moving.

“In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help.
From His temple He heard my voice, and my cry to Him reached His ears.”
— Psalm 18:6