He was a police man.
Without the Komban Meesha (long, twirling moustache).
Or the loud, scary voice (he used to make it extra meek while talking to a 9-year old me).
He was tall and well-built, but he was one of the most softest, gentlest men I knew.
Radhettan.
Radhakrishnan.
His mother, Vesu Edthi (Lakshmi was her name) as everyone fondly called her, was my dad's cousin. When the Gulf War happened and we had to run back to India as refugees with nothing but our clothes on, his mother and he were among the few who warmly welcomed us into their homes.
When my parents had to fly back to Kuwait, after a year, to get back into their government jobs and make a living, they were puzzled. Because the country was not yet safe or fully inhabitable, particularly for children.
Vesu Edthi volunteered to take care of us 3 children (then a 9 year old me, 10.5 year old brother and 11.5 year old sister). How long it might take for our parents to bring us back to Kuwait - no body knew. But Vesu Edthi opened up her home and heart to us. She was well over 50 then (I know, I really wouldn't do it).
Her son, Radhettan was already a police officer. Newly married. His beautiful wife Uma Chechi and he used to live away, at the Police Quarters because their job demanded it. Uma chechi and he were a match made in heaven. She was also a Police officer. And Vesu Edthi used to beam with pride when she introduced her daughter-in-law to anyone. A 'Vanitha' police! And I would also be full of pride while traveling with Uma chechi, as if I contributed to making her a Vanitha Police.
I used to look forward to their weekly visits home, with brown covers wrapping the cakes or yellow laddus or orange jilebis. They were the only visitors we used to get then.
I was always in awe of Radhettan. For how sweet he was. For how such a huge body could not be intimidating because of his kindness. For how adoringly he would treat his wife. Then I saw him be a father to 2. His children grew. Got married. Radhettan turned older. But whenever I met him, I was still a little intimidated by his overwhelming personality, and the kindness that followed.
I was always sure that the job was just a facade. All the policemen I knew, including my father had only horror stories to tell. This man was different. He was my weekly Santa. I still remember sitting in the Poduvayil Tharavadu veedu as a 9 year old, looking out of the windows waiting for Radhettan's visit with Palaharam.
Maybe I loved the Palaharam more! Maybe that's why I never visited him, except for occasional meets at random weddings.
And I won't meet you anymore. A heart attack took him away last night.
You were too young to go so soon! Maybe the work did get to you? I pray that Uma chechi and family can cope with this immense loss.
And I pray I can be the "Radhettan" for atleast one of my nephews or nieces.
Pranaamangal!
