On the 21st of May every year I do not remember Rajiv Gandhi. I remember my wife. Let me tell you why.

We were in Bangalore the year he was assassinated. And since my wife and kids had come down for a holiday to be with me (I used to operate from Bangalore in those days) we slept in late in my one room studio apartment.

We had no TV, no radio and I did not subscribe to a newspaper.

So when we finally woke up and got the kids ready and then trooped to the car so we could all drive somewhere for a lazy brunch we were quite surprised to see clusters of people hanging around street corners, paan shops, udipi joints and what have you. All of them had hang dog expressions on their face and an uneasy calm seemed to hang like a mist on the city of Bangalore.

My daughter pointed out that there was hardly any traffic on the roads. And she was a toddler, so go figure.

We reached the restaurant of choice and I asked someone what the matter seemed to be. He looked at me as if I was an alien and hurried inside but not before announcing with a sob that Rajiv Gandhi was dead.

I spoke to the Manager of the hotel and he confirmed the news. Rajiv had been blown up by a female assassin.

My kids had a baffled look on their faces and I couldn’t understand why. I mean how does the death of the ex Indian PM affect kids of 6 and 3. Then I realised that their baffled faces were a reaction to my wife’s.

I looked at her and was stumped. Here was my wife, a temple of calm and serendipity in most situations…with tears running down her cheeks…with giant intakes of breath as she choked on the news. He is too young. He cannot die. That’s not fair. She went on and on. Crying. Sobbing.

I couldn’t but help admire her naivety.

She pulled the kids to her and went on telling them that Rajiv Gandhi was no more. Not that the kids understood but I am sure they picked up a note or two of panic in my wife’s voice and they hugged their mother even harder. The back seat of my Ambassador began to look suspiciously like the front seat of a tear jerking soap opera.

It took me the better part of the rest of the day to soothe my wife into normalcy.

Ever since then on every 21st of May we remind her about how she broke down; how naive she was; how simple and vulnerable. I tease her too but with a sense of respect…to feel for fellow man  is a sign that the heart is sufficiently sensitive.

For a person who can feel only his own pain is callous. And has a heart that only pumps blood…not emotions.