His name is etched in the fibre of our nation. The older generation and youth alike praise him as the Father of the Nation, or Chacha as kids affectionately call him; for me, beyond the doctor and the politician, he was a doting father – simply that. He was a man with a mission; a man who loved his country beyond measure. But for me, growing up as a kid, I only saw him as the father who cared, who while navigating the vicissitudes of political life, made time for us, paying the minutest attention to how we went about our days, what we read, what we wore, and how we conducted ourselves. 
He surrounded himself with books, and his passion was infectious. We had an extended family; my two maternal aunts stayed with us for a while at the insistence of SSR so they could continue to attend school without having to commute for long on a daily basis. On week-ends, the house resonated with the laughter of a bunch of kids, as cousins, from near and far, joined us. While we could have our own little merry time, SSR insisted that time be carved out for reading. As we devoured the stories that unfolded on the magical pages, we sometimes stumbled on difficult words that we struggled to make sense of. He would urge us to immediately grab our dictionaries and take note of every single word whose meaning we were just discovering. One Christmas, as the rain came pouring outside, he gathered us around him to read Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”, carrying our little minds into a world of fancy that beautifully stirred our imagination.
He believed that reading opens our minds and hearts and makes us better human beings. Once, he caught me reading P.G. Wodehouse. I thought he would berate me for reading comedy when I should have been doing my homework. Instead, he looked at me with a smile and said, “I’m so glad you like P.G. Wodehouse. I loved his stories too.” We simply could not mess around with books. The simple act of retrieving a book from the shelf, or turning the pages of a book held a ritual characteristic. Nothing could get SSR more upset than being disrespectful to a book. He would cover his books to protect them from dust; he would painstakingly show us how to get a book from the shelf with care. I would be in serious trouble if I would fold the corner of a book instead of using a bookmark. “Bizin pa bles enn liv,” he would say.
He loved and he cared deeply- for us, for the humans who crossed his path whether as family, as doctor or as policy maker, and for animals. “No unnecessary killing”, he used to say. Once, some friends of his gave him a turkey, all fit and juicy, intended for what they believed would be a scrumptious Christmas dinner. He refused to kill the turkey, and instead kept it as a pet. He would not harm an ant. If he saw ants in the washbasin, he would tell my brother to bring a piece of paper to gently remove them before opening the tap.
Kiss-Kiss
Feeding the birds was part of his daily morning routine. I cannot count how many stray dogs and cats we always ended up rescuing and which instantaneously became part of the family. He had a special connection with his furry mates. He bonded with them in a way that sometimes we failed to fathom. At la Rue Desforges, one of our dogs which he had brought home from the streets, would run to the gate and wait for him, ears all perked up. Minutes later, we would see SSR walk through the door. Another beloved dog named Kiss-Kiss remained his faithful companion for years. Kiss-Kiss was always comfortably nested next to him as he listened to the radio or read his daily newspapers. Kiss-Kiss breathed her last couple of days before SSR left this world, almost as if she foresaw the death of the one who had raised her and silently made a vow to go first. The days that followed were hard for SSR. The pain of loss was palpable in his eyes.
He used to narrate the story of “the first dog in paradise”, referring to the dog that accompanied the Pandava Prince Yudhistir to heaven, as depicted in the Mahabharata. As goes the narrative, when Lord Indra denied Yudhistir’s dog entry into heaven, arguing that there is no place in heaven for dogs, Yudhistir refused to abandon his loyal companion. Yudhistir vehemently stood his ground and said, “‘If it does not deserve to go to heaven, then neither do I.” That’s when the dog transformed itself into Dharma, the God of righteousness and blessed Yudhistir for his compassion and virtue. I probably did not understand the full measure of this tale from the Mahabharata back in the days, but reflecting on it now, I cannot help but think that SSR lived that same path of kindness and unwavering commitment to righteousness; he was not just sharing with us the story of the first dog who got into paradise; he was (maybe consciously) drilling into our being the power of unconditional love.
He loved simple food – bouyon bred, satini pomdeter, pwason-sale. One of our cats, which I had named Cendrillon, always kept an eye open for dinner time, and would scurry to the table hungry as ever as soon as she saw SSR with his plate. Sitting at the table, he would quietly slip a piece of pwason-sale to Cendrillon, which would stick its tongue out in absolute pleasure and ask for more. That was hilarious to me, but my mum would say “pa les sat-la al kot li; li pou donn li tou so manze.” And lo and behold, when I tried to prevent Cendrillon from going to the table following my mother’s instructions, he told me: “to fer li dominer kouma Cendrillon mem.” And just like that, I knew that no one could, and no one should, come in between him and his beloved pets.
We had another faithful companion – our cat Chico. When Chico died and we were burying him, SSR stood gazing at us, lost in his memories. Later that day, when my mother gave him his food, he said in a tone mixed with hurt, anger and sorrow “mo sat inn mor, zot oule mo manze?” We understood that he had lost yet another companion, and he felt the ache, deep in his soul. No words of comfort could erase the throb that engulfed each and every cell of his body.
That was SSR – a man who lived with an intensity that goes beyond what can be described in words. The most valuable legacy he has left to my brother and me is his immense love for books and animals. The people of this country love and admire him for the great things that he achieved. While he was meticulously crafting the destiny of this nation with other stalwarts of his time, he found peace in the little things, surrounded by his books and faithful little companions. This is how I will forever remember him.
*Soonita Ramgoolam Joypaul
