Shridhar Gadgil (1943-2024)
On October 24, 2024, I happened to be in Pune when I got a via via WhatsApp text conveying the demise of my maternal uncle Shridhar Gadgil. It was only divine intervention that I was in the same city, if only for a short span, and was able to attend the last rites despite no intimation from the bereaved family. Souls have a way to ordain things as per their wish, and mere mortals have little say in the matter, contrary to what they believe. Having left the mortal body, a soul breaks free of the pride and prejudice of human existence and in a flash, thinks and acts in altruistic ways, both by design and default.
My uncle essentially belonged to an era of the twin broadcast options of All India Radio and Doordarshan, and he was naturally enamoured by the variety and velocity of social media conversations. He seemed keen to share his experiences and perspectives with the world at large, given his intermittent attempts to revive his blog, FB, and Twitter accounts. Guided by the soul's inherent aspiration, here's an attempt to put his life in perspective.
A competent construction industry professional, my uncle was a strong proponent of low-cost housing, and some of his ideas were ripe with disruptive innovation – esp. his blueprints of dome structures, flood-proof road construction, or even the astutely designed stilt parking areas, box ceilings, and curtain pelmets (cornice boards) in several buildings in and around Mumbai. His practical ingenuity more than compensated his average academic credentials, and his project consultancy insights were invariably actionable.
Much of his trait of being able to think on his feet was inherited from his mother Shantabai Gadgil, an iron-willed lady of strong conviction, sharp wit, and astounding wisdom, who always had a bagful of tips and tricks to overcome the most formidable of challenges, as also his maternal uncle Gurunath Barve whose rags to riches saga - from a cotton factory worker to cotton industry captain - reads like a film script.
My uncle had quite a story of his own - having come from Gwalior to Mumbai armed with a civil engineering degree and starting out on his own after a long employment stint under established developers in Mumbai. Before losing his way in the murky business and fly-by-night dealings of buidling construction which ended up tarnishing his name and reputation, he had carved a niche in the industry and built his fortune, brick by brick.
A large chunk of my childhood and adolescent time in Mumbai was spent in my uncle's company, and today, my mind has flown back in time to relive many 24 carat moments from the past I hold dear to this day. It was not that I shared a great equation with him at all times, but there was some elusive force which bound us together and it was fun to recall the life and times of magic moments and maverick people from his hometown of Gwalior, as also the enterprising folks from his wife's side, the prolific Nenes of Dadar, in the course of our conversations during chance encounters.
He was among the few blood relations who could grasp the towering selflessness of my father's life work as an archaeologist, historian, and thinker. His presence at my dad's funeral was more than reassuring, as the sole, yellowing leaf of my mother's paternal family tree. The last of the native Romans!
Intriguing it may seem to many readers that the common motif underlying these reminiscences is that of food, which I believe is a profound metaphor, and nutritious food for thought for a Freudian analysis.
The earliest remembrance is of Bhopal junction where I and my mom had boarded a Gwalior bound train. Minutes before our train left the platform, he came running with a pack of Parle Gluco biscuits for me. Another fond memory is that of a Mumbai-Pune drive when he stopped at ‘Ramakant’ in Khopoli only to fetch me a plate of piping hot Batata Vada, on a day he was fasting for religious reasons. At another time, he made me a toast sandwich late one night, the moment he knew I had missed dinner.
During my college years, I spent several months at Chaitraban, his Vile Parle residence at Hanuman cross road number 1, at a time when his family had shifted base to Pune, but he usually stayed in the Parle flat owing to work commitments. Each morning, I used to fetch milk from the local store, and while he made tea, we discussed the nuances of Indian classical music, as also his favourite Hindi film numbers of Sachin Dev Burman.
Following my uncle’s demise, an entire generation from my mother’s side has faded into oblivion. It marks the end of an epoch-making era in its own right, and the current generation will draw a truckload of life lessons if they care to look back, stealing few moments off their hapless, one-directional march forward in the name of progress and development.
Bereavement will then become more therapeutic, blessed with more meaning and substance, way more than what being the cynosure of all eyes on the day of the cremation, laden with incessant weeping and ceremonial mourning, can ever hope to fetch.