Today marks ten years since my father passed away. We call it his Punyatithi in Hindi—a day to remember, honor, and reflect. It was in 2015 when he returned to India after a brief visit with me in the United States. Little did I know that it would be our last meeting in person. He never mentioned any illness, and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t even realize anything was wrong.

He was always motivated, always upbeat, living a life of strict discipline and devotion. A lifelong vegetarian, no alcohol, no outside food, and unwavering in his commitment to Jain principles. He lived a saint’s life, rooted in the values he absorbed during his early Sangh (RSS) years. People who knew him respected him deeply. I never once heard an ill word spoken about him.

And yet, our relationship was distant.

I think part of me struggled to accept how entirely his life was dedicated to society. He held many public roles—whether in politics, education, or spiritual service—and was always busy helping someone, somewhere. On the other hand, my mother carried the weight of our home and needs. Maybe I resented that imbalance. Perhaps I didn’t understand it back then.

But I now realize that while he was looking after everyone else, he forgot to look after himself.

He died of a heart attack at the age of 74—an outcome that might have been preventable with proper care and early intervention. It pains me to think that someone who gave so much to others might still be alive today, possibly even serving as a Governor like some of his peers, had he just taken a moment to prioritize his health.

This realization hit home for me again just last month. I felt a little discomfort in my chest, and despite my own healthy lifestyle, I decided to go for a complete cardiac check-up. The results showed early signs of plaque in my arteries. I’m now on medication, and I’m grateful I caught it early. But it was a wake-up call.

Who will look after us if we don’t look after ourselves?

I remember during my father’s funeral, one of his longtime friends came up to me and said something that still echoes in my heart: “It was your duty to look after your father. And you failed.” I can’t explain the guilt and weight of those words. It was part of the reason I didn’t hesitate when my mother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I packed up my life in the U.S. and moved back to India without a second thought.

It was what my father would have wanted from me?

He spent years helping senior citizens in Jaipur whose children had either moved abroad or abandoned them in old age. He would take them to their children’s homes, sit them down, and convince them to care for their parents. He even published a magazine called Vanprasthi—a beautiful word that means “Giving back after 50.” Every new edition would arrive at my doorstep in the U.S., mailed by him. I still have them in my library.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand why he worked so hard on it. I used to wonder, “What’s the point?” especially in the U.S., where the state provides a safety net for the elderly through Medicare and Medicaid. But I now realize: What about emotional care? Who looks after our hearts—not just physically but emotionally?

India has its own challenges. If you don’t look after your parents here, it can become a fight for survival. And yet, in both countries—despite all the differences—there remains one universal truth:

If you don’t look after yourself, who else will?

Today, I sit with a sense of deep gratitude for my father. He lived a life of purpose, and his legacy lives on even if I didn’t always understand it. Some of his friends still ask me why I don’t write the way he used to. They miss his magazine. And maybe now, I finally understand its impact—not just as a collection of articles, but as a beacon for those navigating the second half of life.

So today, I repeat it: Look after yourself well for your sake and those who love you. Your health, your presence, your story—it matters.

Happy Monday. To my father: I’m sorry, and thank you. Your life still inspires many, including me.

Yours Kunal

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1. 

   Hi Jain First of all I am so saddened, nay devastated, to see seven children lost their precious lives just…

2. 

   👍

3. 

   Dear Kunal,You wrote a beautiful litt

4. 

   🙏

5. 

   🙏

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