"Sanjiv and Me"
By Vik Bahl
July 20, 2020
I only remember one birthday party from my childhood. It was when I turned 10 in 1975, a year after we moved to Tempe, AZ from the small town of Benson. Sanjiv, his parents Raj uncle and Sharda aunty, and his younger sister Sangeeta lived just a few blocks from our new townhome complex, which had a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a clubhouse. Sanjiv came over nearly every day that first summer to swim with me in that pool full of kids playing and laughing and splashing about.
For my 10th birthday, my parents rented out the clubhouse and invited all of their new friends from the Indian community and perhaps some others. Sanjiv came over to our house earlier in the day to give me my presents, two 45 rpm records, one of which was Hot Butter's "Popcorn." Sanjiv had me play the record with him so that he could witness me hearing the song's clever and ebullient emulation of the sound of popcorn popping, much to my great delight.
I am struck by the connection between that gesture of his and a small incident many years later at a birthday party for Sanjiv's own son Milan at an Indian restaurant in Scottsdale. There was a young boy, perhaps 6 or 7 years old, who was running around and creating quite a disturbance, much to his dad's exasperation who could not catch him to make him behave. Sanjiv said that that boy was also known to mix up all of the guests' shoes that accumulate at the entrance of any Indian house during a party or celebration. This was many years before I, too, had a naughty son, so I made some unsympathetic remark about out-of-control kids.
As I was soon to learn, however, there was more to the boy's story than his youthful vocation as a party tornado and shoe randomizer. Sanjiv informed me that the boy's mom took him once a week to Arizona State University to attend a math class. He also revealed that he would occasionally give the boy a difficult math problem, which the boy would dutifully work on before giving him the solution a couple of weeks later. I was stunned and immediately regretted having been the unwitting agent of law and order by having caught the young lad and delivering him to his dad.
Just as Sanjiv was eager to share something delightful he had discovered with me on my 10th birthday, so he had found a way to share his own knowledge and love of math with this small mischievous boy, meaningfully discerning and engaging with his gifts and talents. I have other memories of watching Sanjiv interact with kids, who were immediately drawn to his charisma and his playful, inclusive, and teaching spirit.
When I saw the pictures of Sanjiv as a young boy in the video that Stanford Medicine had produced for the July 17 ceremony awarding him their highest honor of the Dean's Medal and announcing the creation of a professorship in his name, I was surprised to remember that Sanjiv was only 2.5 years older than me. I could have sworn there was a much larger gap in our ages. I realized that I was an early beneficiary of Sanjiv's exceptional traits of curiosity, kindness, and generosity. He wore the mantle of older brother with ease and grace.
I also had the opportunity to see Sanjiv in action as a father. Once I visited him and his gracious wife Aruna at their home in Portola Valley when Milan was maybe just four or five. Sanjiv had Milan explain to me how he knew there were an infinite number of numbers, which Milan promptly did in the language of an elegant math proof. Sanjiv had also trained Milan to withstand any amount of tickling. I was skeptical, but indeed the proof was conclusive if less elegant than the previous one for the concept of infinity.
Some years later, when I visited them again with my wife Seema and son Rohin, Milan was already growing into a tall and devastatingly handsome young man, yet he willingly entertained the much younger Rohin, giving him a glimpse into his wondrous young adult world. When Rohin accidentally sent the remote-control car they had gotten for him as a gift into their swimming pool, Sanjiv instructed Milan to dive in to retrieve it. Milan protested mildly, but Sanjiv shook his head with a smile to indicate that refusal was not an option. Milan flashed his own smile, and without another moment's hesitation jumped into the pool and rescued the still-functioning car.
I was taken by complete surprise by the extent of my emotions at the memorial service for Milan in 2015. I had never wept like that before nor experienced such a spontaneous overflow of emotion. My tears surprised me because I had seen Sanjiv relatively infrequently over the previous 35 years after we both left Arizona for other adventures. I would not experience again such a burgeoning forth of seemingly endless tears until the death of my own father in 2017. How do we hold certain people and families within ourselves in such a way that we may not even be consciously aware of, beyond thought or intention? My unprecedented tears and the depth of my emotion revealed to me that this must be how I hold the Gambhirs, who are the closest thing to extended family that I have known after we moved from India to the United States when I was five years old.
Raj uncle was a brother to my father Prem. Sharda aunty is nothing less than a sister to my mom Lakshi. Whenever I would go home to Arizona, Sharda aunty would arrive unannounced with an early-morning doorbell, bringing one of her delectable chicken dishes or stuffed paranthas or some other tasty treat that she would have prepared fresh for me at the break of dawn. Uncle and Aunty, ask of me anything you would ask of a son. Sangeeta and Aruna, consider me your brother and Aru your sister.
The second 45 rpm record that Sanjiv gave me for my birthday was Terry Jacks' "Seasons in the Sun," which is a song about a dying man bidding farewell to his friends and family. This is in such stark contrast to the "Popcorn" song, but it must somehow have captured Sanjiv even when he was just 12 years old. There is no way now to listen to this song without weeping, even if Sanjiv himself were to conduct the training just as he taught Milan to withstand tickling.
Sanjiv died on July 18, the morning after Stanford's beautiful award ceremony for him. July 18 is also my birthday. Each year I will remember my 10th birthday party from 45 years ago. I will remember my brother Sanjiv bhaiya, and I will continue carrying the Gambhir family in my heart, beyond the limits of thought and intention.
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