Murthy’s own heart was stolen the day he met his daughter, a few days after she was born at her maternal grandmother’s house in Hubli, while he still a young man working in Mumbai. In fact, he says her arrival into his life changed him forever.
‘Becoming a father to you, my dear child, transformed me in such a way that I could never go back to being the same person I used to be before. Your arrival in my life brought unimaginable joy and a larger responsibility on my shoulder. I was no more just a husband, a son, or a promising employee at one of India’s fastest-growing companies. I was also a father who would grow to become a hero to his daughter; a man who, in her eyes, could do no wrong, and I had no choice but to measure up to those expectations every day of my life. Your birth raised the benchmark for every aspect of my life, including my work life. My interactions at the workplace had to be more thoughtful and measured, the quality of my transactions with the outside world had to be more considerate, dignified, and more mature, and I had to deal with every human being more sensitively and courteously. After all, some day you would grow up and understand the world around you and I didn’t want for you to ever think I did anything even remotely wrong.’
I met Murthy in his new office in a tree-lined, charming residential community in Bangalore just days before his son Rohan was getting married to Lakshmi, the daughter of one of India’s most respected industrialists—Venu Srinivasan. And yet, there was nothing in his demeanor that showed stress about the million things that he possibly had to get done, being the father of the groom. Instead, the small-built, bespectacled man who was the torch-bearer of India’s rapid ascent to becoming an IT powerhouse, regaled me with his stories of bringing up his children—from fond anecdotes of tucking them into bed to telling them silly stories till they had tears running down their eyes—and plied me with endless cups of tea as he chuckled over memories of the past. Murthy might be mistaken for a rather stern, old-world college professor, but through the course of my interview, I learnt that he has a wicked sense of humor and an elephantine memory.
Dear Akshata,
A regular April evening in Mumbai, in 1980, suddenly became special for me—I received the much-awaited news of your birth.
In those days we could not afford a telephone at home, and my then colleague, Arvind Kher, came all the way from our office in Nariman Point to our house in Bandra to tell me that your mother had delivered you, back in Hubli, her hometown.
‘So, how does it feel to be a father?’ asked Arvind.
I replied that, for the first time in my life, I felt the compelling need to become a better person.
For now there was someone in whose eyes I could do no wrong. Someone, for whom I’d always be a hero. Someone, whose life would be shaped by my actions. I told him I felt a sense of awesome responsibility. I suppose, Arvind could see that becoming a father had completely overwhelmed me.
Akshata, becoming a father transformed me in ways that I could never have thought possible. I could never go back to being the person I used to be before. Your arrival in my life brought unimaginable joy and a larger responsibility. I was no more just a husband, a son, or a promising employee of a fast-growing company. I was a father, who had to measure up to the expectations his daughter would have of him at every stage of her life.
Your birth raised the benchmark of my life, in every aspect.
My interactions at the workplace became more thoughtful and measured; the quality of my transactions with the outside world more considerate, dignified, and mature. I felt a need to deal with every human being more sensitively and courteously. After all, some day you would grow up and understand the world around you, and I didn’t want you ever to think that I had done anything even remotely wrong.
My mind often goes back to the initial days after your birth. Your mother and I were young then and struggling to find our feet in our careers. Two months after your birth in Hubli, we brought you to Mumbai, but discovered, quickly enough, that it was a difficult task to nurture a child and manage careers side by side. So, we decided that you would spend the initial years of your life with your grandparents in Hubli. Naturally, it was a hard decision to make, one which took me quite a bit of time to come to terms with. Every weekend, I would take the plane to Belgaum and then hire a car to Hubli. It was very expensive, but I couldn’t do without seeing you.
What never ceased to amaze me was how you created your own little happy world at Hubli, surrounded by your grandparents and a set of adoring aunts and relatives, oblivious of our absence from your life.
I still remember the joy I felt when I walked through the door of your grandparents’ house on weekends to pick you up and hold you close. As soon as you saw me, you would switch your allegiance, and we would become one inseparable unit. Neither your grandparents nor tachi (her aunt Sunanda) were allowed into our inner circle as long as I was in there! Everyone used to be amazed by this and we would all have a good laugh. Of course, I would secretly swell with pride at your loyalty. Most
