A Man with Clarity of Thoughts: A Tribute to Late Sunil Kaka

There are people who live quietly, without ever demanding the center stage, yet leave behind a silence that feels larger than life when they are gone. My cousin uncle, Sunil Kaka, was one such soul.

Sunil Kaka on March 6th, 2010

I didn’t meet him very often—usually just during my visits to our farms—but each interaction left a lasting impression. I always saw him on his wheelchair. A tragic road accident many years ago had left him paralyzed from the waist down. It was a life-altering moment for him, but not a life-defining one. While many of us may view such a condition as limiting, even devastating, Sunil Kaka seemed to transcend it. He lived with acceptance, quiet dignity, and, I dare say, extraordinary grace.

There was something about him—something beyond the physical. During our brief conversations, I always had the sense that he possessed a kind of inner power, a sixth sense. He had a razor-sharp mind and often surprised me with his insights into the world—be it village politics, international affairs, or even weather forecasts. Sitting in his chair for hours, he would reflect deeply on the happenings around him. Some might call it idleness; I saw it as contemplation.

What particularly stood out was his passion for chess. He was an exceptional player. Perhaps the stillness of his body had allowed his mind to sharpen beyond ordinary limits. I often wondered if his disability had somehow unshackled other faculties within him—making him not less than us, but perhaps more in certain ways.

Sunil Kaka was also an active participant in our family WhatsApp group. He was known for his long messages—updates, thoughts, reflections. In the rush of life, I had stopped reading those messages attentively. I regret that now.

Toward the end, he began to suffer from severe kidney problems—likely caused by years of drinking borewell water. The pain became unbearable in his final days. It was one of those phases when a person runs out of options and battles the night alone. Yet even then, Kaka’s unusual sensitivity didn’t leave him.

At 4:11 AM, in the early morning darkness when most of the world was asleep, he sent a message to our WhatsApp group. Just three words:

“Goodbye Shinde Pariwar.”

By 6:30 AM, he was gone.

I stared at that message and its timestamp for a long time, reading it again and again. Did he know? Could he feel the knock of death approaching? That uncanny sense of awareness had always surrounded him, but this time, it was deeply personal.

Since that day, I’ve often returned to my memories with him—the quiet conversations, the unexpected wisdom, the way he made his wheelchair a throne of thought rather than a prison of limitation. Sunil Kaka didn’t just survive after the accident. He lived, reflected, played, shared, and finally, he said goodbye with a clarity most of us may never have when our time comes.

He left us in the same way he lived—with awareness, calmness, and a gentle whisper, not a cry.

Goodbye, Kaka. You’ll be missed—not for the life you couldn’t live, but for the depth with which you lived the one you had.