For the world, he was Manu Chhabria - the liquor baron, the corporate raider of the 80's, the takeover tycoon. For me, he was simply "Papa." All little girls look up to their father as being a superhero, and I guess as a kid I was no different. Most little girls grow out of the phase though, but in my case my wide eyed adulation for my father stuck on well beyond my wonder years. My father was in a way, a super hero of sorts. Not the all brawn and no brain cartoon figure type, but of a more realistic sort. Strong, powerful, sharp, witty- he possessed an aura of greatness around him. That was what he was for me- invincible.
On the 6th of April 2002 this invincible man slipped into a state of eterna silence. The world mourned the loss of a savvy business magnate-newspapers spoke at length about his achievements and applauded his accomplishments. What the world did not see, was that he was so much more. My father was a great friend to many and his in your face, what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude to business also transcended into the way he dealt with personal relationships. He was honest, open and more than anything, generous. He had few friends but the ones he did, were for keeps- whether they were from his school days in Bombay or from his early days in Dubai- he treated them like family and that is what they remained to him till the end. A friend's son had flown down from New York to give his condolences to the family and when asked the reason for his long journey said very matter-of-factly, "He always made time for me. He was my pillar of strength" - and I realized he was just that for so many others- myself included.
As a father, at the risk of sounding cliche, he was warm and loving. Papa's incredible sense of humor often made it hard for us as kids to understand why he made others tremble at the very sound of his voice. He was always there for us to give advice and to impart those golden words of wisdom he did so very often. He was there on all important occasions, be it my birthday, my high school graduation in Switzerland, or helping me settle into my dorm at college. While in college I would cry to him complaining that all my friends drove around in Porsches, BMW's and other such cars, and why should I, M R Chhabria's daughter, be condemned to riding around in a tram for transport? While he promptly bought me the latest Benz to drive around in Dubai during vacations, my status in Boston remained car-less till the end. He was a conservative father and the act of giving me free transport meant just too much freedom for him to bear. He told me he had nothing to prove to me and that I shouldn't to others either. He lived his life on his own terms and he always tried to | impart the same to myself and my sisters.
Ever since I was young I'd always wanted to be a writer. My father always let me make my own decisions and had also approved to let me do an English or Communications major while at college. It was my mother who made me realize that a business major would be more suited to gear me for my future. A few months back I approached Papa and told him that I wanted to write a book on his life. He looked a little taken aback and asked me, "for what?" "For people to read Papa," was my reply. "Why the hell would people want to read about me? What have I done?" was his innocent response. : All requests, demands and later even tantrums ordering him to talk to me about his past fell on deaf ears. He refused to cooperate and insisted that I was wasting my time, and the only words I ever wrote about him are these. Don't get me wrong, he loved the adulation of the Press when they gave it to him- and why not? He had achieved so much in his life. He just never thought he had achieved enough.
If a few people know the man behind the angry stare, fewer know that he was a romantic at heart. While people often say that his first love was his work, it cannot even compare to the love he had for my mother. Travelling, he would often call her ten times a day asking her even the most mundane of questions like what she ate at all meal times. Recently my mother gave Papa a card that read, "To the King of my Castle... from the Power behind the Throne" and he laughed heartily saying how apt it was. He always attributed his success to my mother and us three daughters, but when it came down to it, he always said that she was where his real power came from. He consulted her on all matters, no matter how trivial or convoluted they were, and she always had the final say in business and family matters alike. On the 16th of March, while my father was being prepared for his Bypass surgery, he asked to see my sisters. A ventilator pipe in his mouth restricted him from talking and IV drips in his right hand, from writing. He motioned them to get him a pen and paper and with a shaky left hand wrote the words "Take care" I mouthed "Mama." When my mother later went to see him she said the words, "you have to live for us" to him. "No," he motioned. "For you."
After his demise, there was a common feeling of shock and disbelief amongst friends and family alike. Amusingly enough, a lot of people shared the same sentiment that Papa would come marching through the door and yell at them for the way things were being handled while he was away. He had always been a stickler for perfection and that is how he was till the very end. The day before he passed away he had even insisted on setting a haircut while he was in ICU. He was supposed to go to a regular room the next day and I had tried to reason with him that he could get a haircut then. "Now!" He had said sharply and that was that- a barber was arranged in the next half an hour. It was this fetish for perfection of his that made my sister Komal take the decision of cremating him the day after he passed away. A man like him would never have tolerated a hushed up, hurried affair, she said. He lived in style and he will go in style, were her exact words. The next day as I rode with my father's body to the cremation grounds I realized how right she was. The otherwise congested Mumbai roads silent, traffic stalled, police cars in the front, police cars at the back with stationed guards saluting him every few kilometers. It's like the pandit who performed the final rites said, "It was a farewell fit for a King." My father deserved no less.
One of my father's recent favourite one-liners was, "I'm not an angry young man anymore," to which I once replied, "Yes Papa, now you're just an angry old man." He looked at me not very amused and then burst out laughing. It is this anger of his, this passion that has permeated through him into his group companies and it will live on forever. It's like any person who ever spent enough time with him will know, just because his eyes were shut, it didn't mean he wasn't listening. Nothing's changed. And for all those who think they've lost a husband, father. Chairman or friend in him, I'll just say this-Manohar Rajaram Chhabria is, was and will always be invincible. He'll live on in our hearts forever.
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