The Man Who Was All Heart: Tribute to a Friend

Life has a strange, almost cruel, way of guiding our memories. I was catapulted back into the heart of my past when Facebook, with its digital nonchalance, threw up Bassy’s image, suggesting we connect. I stopped everything and just stared. There was his familiar, radiant smile, the intricate landscape of his tattoos clearly visible on his forearms, and that unmistakable, reckless sparkle in his eyes—the kind he always carried. In an instant, I was back in the past.

Bassy and his sunshine smile

I vividly remember that first meeting. Sanju and I had just started dating, and he was eager for me to be vetted by his inner circle. This was 2013. Prashant, Sid, and Bassy were the trinity of his closest friends. The moment Bassy walked in, I was struck. It wasn't just his open, warm smile, but the pure, unedited essence of him—a no-holds-barred honesty that poured out in his banter. Here was a man who was all heart, all the time. His very first words to me were a classic Bassy move: "Sanjay, I was actually supposed to meet Su before you. But we never got there.” That set the tone for everything. Over the next few months, we were woven into each other's lives—at Sanju's or my place, loud parties, and quiet dinners.

One memory glows brighter than the rest. When Sanju and I moved into our new, empty shell of a home in HSR Layout, it was Bassy who arrived like a force of nature. "What’s this, Su!" he exclaimed, genuinely exasperated. "You have so many amazing pieces of art and you haven’t done a thing with them!" He didn't just offer to help; he commanded an operation, dragging two other friends with him. He moved through the chaos with purpose, orchestrating the unpacking, finding the perfect spot for my beloved wall carpet, and grounding our new beginning by gifting us our first potted plants. He didn't just help us move in; he imbued the house with warmth and soul.

He was the patron saint of every gathering. Bassy was always the first to arrive, his booming laugh echoing down the hall, and the last to leave. He wasn't just a guest; he was the co-host, ready to cook, clean, or charm. There was seemingly nothing Bassy couldn't do, and he did it all with that signature, boisterous energy. If he was present, there was no silence, no dull moment; only a stream of stories and anecdotes. He truly loved to nurture his friends through food. I remember one party where the food plans had utterly imploded; Bassy, without a moment of drama, transformed into our angel, conjuring up a feast for the entire crowd seemingly out of thin air.

Bassy held a singular, precious place in my heart. Whenever Sanju and he would clash—which they often did, being equally passionate—I would always take Bassy's side. "You can't be angry at Bassy," I’d tell Sanju. "He never means any of it seriously." And it was true. He would promptly forget the fight, a smile on his face, calling again as if nothing had happened. You simply could not hold a grudge against him for long. His loyalty was a force field.

When we made the big move to Hyderabad, who else but Bassy came along for the drive with Sanju and Kadey, our pet? He was a constant, a fixture in our narrative. We shared beautiful, sprawling trips together—he drove down to Kolar to meet my parents, took my aunt around to see the Ganesha idols all around the town during the festival (she has the pic they had taken framed), and our Hampi group trip was one long, glorious cabaret, thanks to his non-stop singing and banter.  

He extended his huge capacity for love to his furry friends, adopting Penny and then Miffy, right after we got our dog. He adored his pets, he loved his friends fiercely, and his family—whose faces were permanently etched into his skin—was his anchor. He lived loud, he loved to party, and he chased life with an urgency few possess.

But the absolute best part of Bassy was his singing. When he sang, it wasn't just a performance; it was a revelation. He sang with life, with an unmistakable soulfulness that cut through the noise. No party was complete until he burst into song, belting out his favourite regulars. He was boundless, always ready for the next adventure, be it cycling, running, or a spontaneous road trip.

I stayed connected to him until the end of my relationship with Sanju. After that, the thread frayed. His circle shifted, and with Sanju out of the picture, coupled with my own inertia, I drifted away. I invited him to a couple of gatherings after returning to Bangalore, but he never came. I knew then that his world had grown complicated, perhaps dark, and the loud whispers about the weed saddened me. Words of advice seemed to fall on deaf ears. His abode slowly turned into a den of dope heads.

We exchanged messages, the usual "we must catch up," but the only time we finally did was at a friend's party. He had just recovered from surgery and was back in Bangalore. “I’ve found a new job, Su,” he said, giving me a hug that felt both warm and desperately fragile. He promised he was cleaning up his act. We promised to meet properly. It never happened.

Four years ago, a week before his birthday, Bassy bid adieu to his life, leaving a gaping hole in the lives of his family and friends. Even after all this time, the memory of him stays as vibrant and fresh as flowers in spring. His laughter still rings in my ears, and his memory brings that disarming smile to my face, even as it pulls at a raw ache in my heart.

I didn't know that would be our last hug. Bassy has been so much in my thoughts and my dreams ever since. I see that unbelievably disarming smile, and I know he must be smiling wherever he is. It was not his time to go. The only way I can honour him now is by celebrating that fierce, infectious zest for life he shared so freely.

See you, Bassy. Loads of love to the most life-loving person I have ever known.