In 1986, when Doordarshan first arrived in Mannarkkad, the television was not a possession but a commons. A single set in a neighbour’s house became the village square. We gathered for the Mexico World Cup, for Sunday morning serials, for Chitrahaar. The glow of the screen was less about technology than about togetherness.
Some songs and images from those days remain etched like stone inscriptions. Mile Sur Mera Tumhara—a melody of national integration, sung in many tongues—was not just a broadcast, but a vision of belonging. Later, Piyush Pandey’s creations—the Hutch pug, the Fevicol bus—entered our folklore in the same way. They were not merely advertisements; they were shared jokes, shared tenderness, shared recognition.
When Pandey passed away, the tributes poured in. Ogilvy’s full-page homage in The Times of India was unlike anything we had seen before. And yet, a question lingers: why do we wait until death to say what we truly feel? Would not the living heart have been gladdened by those words while it still beat?
I remember in 1998, when Wipro became the first company in the world to achieve SEI CMM Level 5, they printed the names of all employees in the Economic Times. For me, it was the first time my name appeared in print. Recognition in life, not as epitaph, but as celebration. How much it mattered.
Of course, there are a few who are fortunate in this regard. Some lives are bathed in recognition while still unfolding. Sports stars like Pele, Maradona, and Sócrates were not only admired but serenaded in their lifetimes—Pele hailed as “The King”, Maradona as “El Pibe de Oro”, Sócrates as the footballer-philosopher who stood for democracy as much as for the game. Writers like O.V. Vijayan and Kamala Das received living recognition through reviews and cultural debates. Scientists like Einstein and Richard Feynman became beloved public figures, their wit and humanity as cherished as their discoveries—Feynman even laughed at reading his own obituary while alive. And sages too: George Bernard Shaw once called Krishnamurti “the most beautiful human being he had ever seen”; Kahlil Gibran, upon meeting him, whispered, “Surely the Lord of Love has come”; Aldous Huxley introduced him to the world with reverence in The First and Last Freedom. These were tributes spoken in life, not carved in stone after.
But alongside these celebrated ones are the countless unheralded—the teachers who shaped generations without ever being quoted, the neighbors who quietly held communities together, the elders whose wisdom never reached print, the Sangha members who sit in silence and sustain the field of practice. Their names may never appear in newspapers, their faces never on television, yet their impact is no less real. They are the hidden roots of the tree, nourishing unseen.
On 12 July 2009, when a dear one passed away untimely, I wrote in my blog Sunday Sambar under the title Lasting Impressions of Some Remarkable Lives: https://sundaysambar.blogspot.com/2009/07/lasting-impressions-of-some-remarkable.html
“Having crossed so many tragic moments lately, it just seemed odd that this one would make any difference. But still I couldn’t quite put my finger on why it felt different. Maybe only, when someone known to you goes back to Mother Earth as basic elements, we steal some precious moments to step back and think what life means to us and more importantly what matters to us. Then it struck me that it was the people, who live still in my mind long after they are gone from here. It had nothing to do with the environment. They weren’t many. I could count within my hands… They weren’t famous people in that sense of the word. When some of them died, only near and dear knew, wept and prayed for their souls… Nevertheless they were really remarkable people, who led remarkable lives. At least for you.”
But when I look back, I wish I had sent those notes while they were still in flesh and bones, alive and kicking.
It is a socially accepted practice never to badmouth the departed. We are careful not to speak ill of the dead, yet we hesitate to speak well of the living. But there is no written or unwritten practice that says we should not share with the remarkable people in our lives our living tribute — while they are still here to hear it.
So I wonder:
What would it mean if we practiced “living tributes”?
What if we wrote letters of gratitude not after funerals, but on ordinary Tuesdays?
No one really knows where we go after our lives here. People write of heavens where the departed crack jokes, or of philosophers teaching God himself. But what happens after we die is still hypothesis, no matter how finely written in holy books. What is real is this: this very land is lotus land, this very body is Buddha.
Perhaps this is the Dharma of enoughness: to speak the word of thanks now, to bow while the other can still meet our eyes, to let affection and recognition breathe in the present. Impermanence is not only loss; it is also the urgency to love without delay.
The unspoken word is like incense unlit. Let us light it while we can.
Whom do you want to write a living tribute today? Maybe they are not as famous as the names above, but remarkable all the same — at the very least, for you.
