The message from my friend Pillai was cryptic. The subject line read: Ashutosh Ojha 8.2.1956 – 20.4.2024 ? ?. Attached was an unflattering picture of our mutual friend, Ashutosh Ojha. There was no message body.

I checked the time, it was nearly midnight.

I was sure it was spam. Pillai and I had not been in touch for a while. On the other hand, I spoke to Ojha just a couple of days ago. We were planning a short vacation and road trip later in the fall.

Though, the emojis bothered me. They were symbols of prayer.

“Could it be?” I wondered. Heart racing, I decided to check Facebook. A brief note from another mutual friend, Chandni, confirmed it: Ojha was gone.

Just like that!

It’s hard to put into words your emotions when you get blindsided by the news of a dear one’s passing. Sitting in the dark, I reminisced. A lot had transpired in the forty-odd years I had known him.

He was Ashutosh to many, Ojha to some of us, and Ojha Uncle to my daughter who in her 30s still cherishes the saree-clad Barbie he had bought her when she was six. He was one of the most generous people I had ever known.

We met in Jonelia, a well-maintained three-storied apartment building in Bandra, Mumbai where we were living as paying guests. For many of us who passed through Jonelia, those were, undoubtedly, some of the best days of our lives. As twenty-somethings with good jobs and a decent place to live, we built careers and developed bonds that stood the test of time. 

Ojha was soft-spoken and polite. Many compared his looks and demeanor to Amol Palekar, a popular Bollywood actor of the time. More a conversationalist than a party person, Ojha became a sounding board for me with whom I could bounce off ideas and concerns on various topics that ranged from career to relationships.

As life happened, we went our separate ways but reconnected in Mumbai, Chennai, Kochi, Toronto, New York, and New Jersey. Quite the traveler, Ojha is perhaps the only person to have visited me in every house I have lived in, in India and abroad. He always brought thoughtful gifts for my daughter and wife, who saw him more as a family member than a friend.

The man was fallible.

While his career flourished, his relationships did not. Through the highs and lows, we stayed in touch. When we met, we discussed and analyzed our triumphs and predicaments over music, food, and alcohol. With Rajam, his version of Jeeves, in attendance, a Mumbai stay for me meant overindulgence. Always the generous host, he never seemed to understand that we could only eat so much.

A few weeks ago, I spoke to Ojha. I had a few days’ gap in my Indian itinerary and reached out for suggestions on places to visit. He enthusiastically suggested Lucknow, mentioning its rich cultural heritage, and a potential road trip to another nearby city. Despite his busy schedule, he offered to join me for the trip. That sounded like a plan! I had heard a lot about Lucknow but never had the chance to visit.

Days before his unexpected passing, he sent me a gentle reminder, “Kebabs and beer will not be available in Ayodhya.☹️ ” 

I guess he knew me well!

As I wind up this tribute to my friend, the lines from an old Nickelback song come to mind:

Every memory of walking out the front door

I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for

It’s hard to say it, time to say it

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Goodbye Ojha, catch you on the other side!