The Quiet Consigliere

APR 8, 2026

Dear Vikram Uncle,

It has been five years since the second wave took you from us, in that terrible April when Mumbai was losing more than it could count. In those first days of shock, I wrote a letter to Darshana Aunty and Richi. It has taken me this long to write one to you. Maybe that is how it works with quiet men. You do not realize the size of the space they occupied until you have spent years staring at the void they left behind.

My father still misses you dearly. He goes quiet when your name comes up, the way men of his generation do when a loss has not softened with time. You were his true friend, and fate deserves the credit for the introduction. Your family moved into the same building as my parents, and something as ordinary as a shared address grew into one of the defining friendships of their lives. The two families grew up together over the years, even while I was away in the US. There were trips together and frequent dinners, and over time the line between neighbours and family quietly disappeared.

The work came later, and it was never the point. You spent your weeks working full-time at Deloitte, and then you gave your Saturdays to us, coming to the office to keep my father's books. I would often meet you there, bent over the ledgers, treating our small accounts with the same seriousness you gave your big firm all week. I did not understand then what I understand now: that a man who gives you his only free day is not doing accounting. He is doing friendship.

And you were far more than my father's part-time accountant. You were his consigliere in every sense of the word. I know now about the unsavoury characters who would show up at the office, looking to extort money for no reason other than that they could. You would calmly step in, speak to them in their own language, and negotiate until they agreed to leave for a fraction of what they came demanding. My father never had to face them, because you made sure of it. You did all of this without ever asking for credit or recognition. You protected the people you cared about without a thought for what it cost you, and you had the difficult conversations that everyone else avoided. That combination is rarer than I knew when I was young enough to take it for granted.

There are so many memories of you from over the years. The weddings, the pujas at home, the office events, and the time we watched a live cricket match together. In every one of them, you are doing the same thing: showing up. You were the first person my parents would call in any crisis, and you calmed everyone down just by being in the room. Your presence had that much power, and yet you never thought it was a big deal. You simply did what needed to be done, because that is what a good man does. You were a simple, unassuming man who feared God and nothing else.

You loved Darshana Aunty with a steadiness that never needed announcing. You were so proud of Richi, and you adored your grandchildren. Aria was too young to have known you the way we did, and that might be the cruelest part of losing you too soon. So we tell her about you. We keep you alive in stories, in the way my father runs his business with a little of your calm in his voice, and in the standardyou set for what it means to be dependable.

We are still trying to live our lives in your true essence, with positivity and optimism. Some days we manage it. On the days we do not, we remember you, and we try again.

Rest well, Uncle. The books are balanced.

With love and respect,

Rumit