Dear Satyapal,
Never did I imagine this day would come. It was meant to be my turn—but you overtook me.
I have just returned from the electric crematorium. There were people, and then there were more. No formal invitation had been sent, no announcement made, yet the news had travelled in the most human way: heart to heart, breath to breath.
They stood shoulder to shoulder under the unrelenting heat. They came not out of obligation, not to be seen, but out of love—quiet, aching, resolute love.
For them, you were not just a leader. You were a compass: steady, unshaken, quietly pointing true. And for you, they were never just constituents or crowds. They were your people, your extended family. You remembered their names, noticed their absences, celebrated their small victories. You showed up for them in their protests, their harvests, their illnesses, their dreams.
I don’t even know how I carried myself through it all. I was dazed, not quite there. Faces blurred, voices faded. I could barely speak to anyone. Words felt too heavy, too fragile. I simply couldn’t.
Sitting there, my thoughts drifted back to the day I first met you. Do you remember? It was my very first day of college. You were standing near the entrance—composed, with that quiet authority. You looked at me and said, calmly but firmly, “You should go back. The students are on strike today.”
But I didn’t listen. I was determined, and completely unaware that the boy I was defying would one day become my partner for life.
We had built something rare—a bond rooted not in possession, but in deep respect. We gave each other space, yet stood by one another through every turn. We made room for each other’s dreams, carried each other’s burdens, and somehow always found our way back to the same centre. It was a quiet, unwavering connection.
You know, it was from you that I learned my socialism—not as an ideology to be brandished or debated, but as a quiet ethic, a way of being in the world. Your socialism showed in your humility and your refusal to ever let power sit too heavily on your shoulders. I will never forget what you said when you were appointed Governor of a state. With that familiar, wry smile, you told me, “I am still the same man—it’s just that the people around me have started behaving like sahibs.”
You were not just what you believed. You were how you walked, how you listened, how you travelled, how you ate, how you stood with the last person in the line—unafraid, unhesitant.
Also read: ‘I’m neither one to fear nor one to bow down’—Satyapal Malik, one of Modi govt’s fiercest critics
I cherished the poetry you penned and the shair-o-shayari you recited. I loved hearing your stories from the village school, your earthy sense of humour, your unwavering commitment to my parents and siblings, and your eternal bond with your only blood relation, Manji. You moved through the world with a rare grace—a lightness of touch, yes, but also a steadfastness of principle. The two seldom coexist, but in you, they did so effortlessly, beautifully.
I am sure you could see the thousands who had gathered to say goodbye—not just here, but across towns and villages, in homes and hearts, where your name is being remembered with quiet reverence. Students are quoting your words, as if trying to hold on to your wisdom. Farmers are missing your unwavering solidarity. Kabaddi players and other sports persons are recalling how you stood by them; soldiers and police personnel recalling the respect you gave them for their service. And even officers from the Enforcement Directorate—sent to raid your premises, privately admitting that they knew the orders had no real basis—remembering how you had received them with calm dignity. How you offered full cooperation, not out of fear but from a belief in institutional processes.
You lived with such simplicity, fullness, and quiet courage. And now, your upright, philosophical son stands by your side—silently, resolutely—carrying forward your clarity of thought and depth of being. And our daughter-in-law, upholding the values of our family while gracefully bringing in her own strength, thoughtfulness, and individuality.
And now, I find myself alone in the spaces you once so quietly and fully inhabited—especially in these past few months. In the hush of early mornings. In the long, quiet pauses that punctuate the day. I still catch myself waiting for your voice to rise with thought.
Satyapal,
We will make you feel proud in our own individual way, and with love that continues, without measure and without end.
Iqbal
The author is a researcher, educator, and environmentalist. Views are personal.
(Edited by Prasanna Bachchhav)
They say when someone passes away you should not talk ill of them, but being quiet about their chicanery, their opportunism, their unbounded ambition that made them tread one ill-advised path after the other, only because they felt they were too important in the scheme of things, is also allowing false persona to be created around people undeserving of the accolades being showered on them. We have ample examples from the time of Independence, when men of clay were cast into metal as Gods by sycophants. Let’s not kerp repeating that.