Death came softly. In the soft light of early morn, on the wings of a gentle breeze.

My Doctor saab (as I fondly called the person the world knew as Robin Banerjee) passed away quietly. Into the light of his “other” world. He had slept peacefully last night, after a meal of Cerelac and water at around 11 pm. We were all happy (the doctors, his nurses and other well-wishers who had been visiting him regularly, ever since the time he took ill nearly three weeks back).

It had been a long time since he slept so calmly, and we were sanguine that this wonderful human being would be with us just for a while longer, at least to celebrate his birthday on August 12, just a week away.

Alas, wilful time! This wish was not to be realised. Doctor saab's peaceful slumber last night was perhaps only a “sign”, as he would have said, “of the coming quietus”.

The sun was already up when he woke this morning, around 6.20 am. His first words soon after he opened his eyes was, “Aamake jol dao (give me water).” Those words were also to be his last.

Having taken a few sips from the tumbler which I held against his lips, Doctor saab lay back again and closed his eyes. He passed away a few minutes later. It was 6.30 am.

I remember looking out, at the sunlight glinting on tree leaves and the grass. His favourite green. Did I imagine it or did they actually pale in colour as Doctor saab’s spirit took leave of us. They did, I think. He had, after all, pledged his life to them. Along with Jitu Tamuly, who looked after him when he was alive, I lit his funeral pyre on the lawns of his home. This had been his last wish.

Doctor saab was a blessed man; his end was also near-divine. We will miss him, the earth will too. And I know for certain that he will miss his favourite cradle, his Kaziranga.