Radhika: The Gentle Mirror

In memory of my close friend Radhika, who left us so suddenly, in the first week of this year. 

It has taken me almost 7 months to build up the courage and look inwards - to try and understand what she meant to me or indeed what we meant to each other.

Some friendships announce their entry with a fanfare. Others creep in on you. With Radhika, it was neither. She walked into my life, strong and tall, with the quiet assurance that she was here to stay.
 
I first met her (Ms. Radhika Sridhar) when she interviewed me for a job at NIIT. I instantly sensed that we were different from the rest. Here were two sari-clad women, approaching forty, among a bevy of yuppies in western clothes and accented English. I also, somehow, knew she would select me. She had the ability to look beyond my age and my appearance. Instead of the routine questions, she asked me things that made me think. We seemed to connect almost instantly. At the end of the interview, she offered me the job with a firm handshake and a warm smile.
 
Two days later, she invited me for a private chat over a cup of coffee. Gently, she doused my over-enthusiasm and introduced me to the practical realities of the IT industry. More importantly, she planted a thought that would remain with me for years—that I should return to architecture, the profession I had trained for and my true area of competence.
 
The conversation was matter-of-fact. There was neither condescension nor patronising advice, only quiet honesty. Without even realising it, I found myself shedding my belligerence and beginning to look at things more calmly.
 
As it turned out, she was right. In less than ten months, I left the IT industry behind and returned to architecture—a decision I have never regretted.
 
Soon afterwards, she invited me home. It was there that I met Sridhar, for the first time and witnessed the effect he had on her. In his presence, she became a different woman. The less said about that, the better. As I walked out of her house that day, she quietly walked into my heart and took up permanent residence there. Even today, I can clearly picture her standing at the doorway with that slightly tremulous, almost apologetic smile that became so much a part of her.
 
From then on, we were friends. We still are.
Our friendship only deepened over the years. In many ways, it was effortless. Women of the same generation, background and aspirations, we had so much in common. We were professionals trying to balance careers with families, children, ageing parents and in-laws, financial responsibilities and, often, difficult spouses.
 
We could talk endlessly. Equally, we could sit in complete silence.
Once, I spent over two hours with Radhika, hardly uttering a word, yet returned home with my heart so full that it felt as though we had spoken about everything that mattered.
 
How does one encapsulate twenty-five years of friendship in a few paragraphs?
 
We journeyed together from our forties into our mid-sixties, sharing almost every phase that life placed before us. We watched our children grow, choose careers, fall in love, search for life partners and eventually find their own place in the world. We lost parents and in-laws, coped with our own health issues, progressed in our careers, celebrated a few recognitions, stepped into retirement, learnt to manage our finances differently and gradually discovered new interests in the second innings of life.
 
Those are the practical milestones.
 
But there were also the intangible moments—the fleeting joys, the disappointments, the uncertainties and, above all, the loneliness that visits all of us at different times. Even in those moments, I somehow always felt her presence beside me.
 
Radhika was patient by nature. Gentle, but never weak. Firm, but never aggressive. She was also someone who would often give in, if she believed it would restore peace. Those were qualities I lacked in abundance.
 
Looking back, there are perhaps three life lessons she taught me that changed me profoundly.
 
The first came after an incident I would rather forget.
One day, she arrived unexpectedly at my house to change before attending a wedding. Unfortunately, she walked straight into the middle of a bitter argument between Naren and me. It was one of those ugly fights where I came off the worst—raving, ranting and completely losing control.
 
A week later, she came to meet me in my office. There was no judgement in her voice, no attempt to lecture me.
She simply said,
"You can fight. You can raise your voice. You can put your point across—but never at the cost of your dignity. You are a wife, a mother, a professional, a daughter-in-law and, above all, a woman of substance, intelligence and grace. Never let circumstances strip you of your dignity."

"The other day, your anger was beneath you. Did it achieve anything, other than draining you emotionally—and perhaps physically?"
That was all.
 
She neither criticised me nor excused my behaviour. She simply held up a mirror and made me look at myself. Even today, whenever I feel myself slipping into anger, those words come back to me. More often than not, they succeed in quelling the hysteria before it overwhelms me.
 
The second lesson she taught me came after my father passed away suddenly.
 
Somehow, I was unable to come to terms with his death. For almost a year, I merely existed. I went through the motions of daily life, but nothing brought me any joy. I stopped going out. There was no shopping, no crosswords, hardly any television. Even reading, something I had always loved, became infrequent.
 
Radhika gently helped me see the reality I was refusing to accept. She reminded me that our parents would have wanted us to live our own lives, not remain imprisoned by grief. She made me understand that accepting reality was not disloyalty, nor did moving on mean forgetting those we loved. It simply meant allowing life to reclaim its rightful place. Those conversations stayed with me.
 
Years later, when my mother also passed away suddenly, I grieved deeply. But this time, grief did not consume my reality. There were no regrets over words left unsaid or moments missed because, as Radhika had once pointed out, not every emotion needs to be spoken aloud. Some relationships transcend words. The love between parents and children often resides in a silent understanding that neither side feels compelled to constantly express.
 
That insight became one of the greatest gifts she ever gave me.
 
The third lesson came through Suriya.
Like every parent, I navigated his turbulent years of adolescence, academics, teenage emotions, first love and the long journey into adulthood, with a lot of confusion, anxiety and frustration. My reactions, most often were emotional rather than rational.
 
Radhika invariably encouraged me to step back before stepping in.
 
She had an ability to remove herself from the emotion of a situation and look at it with remarkable balance. Her gentle words helped smooth over many moments that had seemed impossible at the time. More often than not, she made me realise that children sometimes needed understanding more than intervention. Looking back today, I know those conversations made me a better mother.
 
Not all her gifts came in the form of life lessons.
 
We both came from a generation of women who rarely felt confident about their appearance. As we grew older, increasing weight and advancing age certainly did little to improve that confidence. Yet Radhika belonged to that rare group of people who loved me enough to genuinely believe I was beautiful.
 
She never saw me by my physical appearance alone. She looked beyond it—at my expressions, my mind, my enthusiasm, my intellect or may be my intentions. Whenever I dressed up for an occasion, she would invariably exclaim, "Wow! You look so nice!"
 
Those few simple words had an extraordinary ability to brighten my day. They made me feel seen, valued and loved. They allowed me, however briefly, to see myself through her eyes rather than through my own relentlessly critical ones.
 
Did I have complaints about her? Of course I did.
A few were trivial. A few were not.
 
I could never understand why she treated personal visits almost like professional appointments. "I'll come at two o'clock and leave at three," she would announce with military precision. It irritated me no end. Friendships, I believed, were meant to overflow time slots.

The irony, of course, is unforgettable.
The very last time she came home, she arrived completely unannounced. I wasn't there. She made herself comfortable, made herself a cup of coffee, found something to eat and spent time chatting with my mother-in-law as though she had lived there all her life. By the time I returned, she was ready to leave.
 
But before she did, she smiled and said that we would meet again soon—with no agenda and no time slots. That was one promise she never got the chance to keep.
 
Another thing that often puzzled me was her apologetic attitude.
She apologised for things that were never really hers to apologise for—her figure, her weight, her failing eyesight, sometimes even her children and, of course, Sridhar the Great!
I would often tell her to stop apologising, to accept reality and confront it head-on.
 
But perhaps it is always easier to advise than to live another person's life. Every individual understands the complexities of their own circumstances better than anyone else. She knew why she accepted so much. She knew why she stayed. She knew what her marriage meant to her. As close as we were, I never felt I had the right to question the most private decisions of her life. Friendship, after all, also means respecting another person's silences.
 
Looking back, I realise that the most enduring aspect of our friendship was the quiet positive influence we had on each other.
 
I, somehow, always reminded Radhika of her own worth—professionally and personally. I encouraged her to recognise the intelligence, competence and strength that others saw so easily, but which she often failed to see in herself. She valued that immensely. She also knew that, whatever the circumstance, she could count on me. I would be there for her.
 
For me, Radhika was the gentle mirror I needed to soften the harsh glare with which I so often viewed myself. She constantly reminded me to go easy on myself. She made me feel good about who I was. She celebrated every achievement of mine, however small, with genuine pride. More importantly, she made me feel loved, cherished and valued by someone whose opinion I respected deeply.
 
Even today, I find it difficult to believe that she is no more.
I still catch myself looking at her name on WhatsApp and wondering.
Some part of me still expects a message or a call.
 
I know, for a fact, that she valued romance in life. She often encouraged me to cherish it in my own marriage, even during difficult times. It seems particularly poignant that she left us so quietly, without even a whisper that would have allowed those who loved her to gather around her one last time.
 
She achieved so much in life. She built a successful professional career, raised two beautiful gifted children, weathered more than her share of personal storms and, even in the later years of her life, continued to learn. I remember with great affection her enthusiasm for drawing classes and her delight in discovering line, colour and composition.
 
I have often wondered what she might have accomplished had life been gentler with her, had circumstances been more nurturing and encouraging.
 
But perhaps that is an unfair question.
None of us lives the life we might have lived.
We live the one we are given. And Radhika lived hers with quiet courage, immense dignity and unfailing grace.
 
If she taught me how to live, she also taught me how to face loss.
She taught me to leave regrets behind, to accept what cannot be changed and to understand that love does not end with a goodbye.
 
Life moves on.
It always does.
Radhika was not merely a part of my life; she became part of the person I slowly grew into.
 
She never judged me. Perhaps that is why there were never any real secrets between us. We did not always speak openly about everything. In fact, many of the most important issues in our lives, remained unspoken. But our hearts always knew what lingered there.
 
Today, she lives in those quiet chambers of memory where time cannot intrude. She is there in the perfumes and jewellery she lovingly gifted me, in the many conversations we shared, in the comfortable silences we treasured and, above all, in the countless moments when she quietly helped me become a better version of myself.
 
And every time I choose dignity over anger, acceptance over regret or kindness over judgement, I know that somewhere, the gentle mirror she once held up before me still reflects the person she believed I could become.

Radhika, wherever you are, may you finally find all that eluded you here, and may you forever hold close the few things you truly cherished.