My father died in 2012, but I’m awed by how his legacy lives on
Mr Prakash Natarajan's father taught by day, tutored by night and spent almost every spare hour with his books. Through the decades, he showed his son how to live with purpose, discipline and consistency.
Left: Mr Prakash Natarajan remembers his father as a man who gave 200 per cent in everything he did. Right: Mr Prakash (right) at 26 years old with his father, in an old photo taken in Dubai in 1989. (Photos: Prakash Natarajan)
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Some of my favourite childhood memories of my father begin not with words, but with sound.
Late each night, when everyone in our street had gone to sleep and all was dark, we would hear it: the faint but distinct "tring tring" of a bicycle bell.
To me, that bell always meant one thing: Appa was back.
After a busy day spent teaching at school, he usually cycled from house to house conducting tuition classes, because a teacher’s salary alone was not enough to raise a family in a city like Chennai, India.
He would park the bicycle, take a quick shower and eat whatever food had been kept for him. And then he would sit down again – not to rest, but to read.
Sometimes he wrote; sometimes he prepared for classes.
Watching him each night, a pile of books stacked before or next to him, I did not think of happiness or fulfilment – but now, in my 60s, memories of those nights still bring me a sense of peace and comfort.
THE MAKING OF A MAN
My father was born in 1928 – in a village in Tamil Nadu, India about 200km from the capital city, Chennai – into a large family with very little means.
As a schoolboy, he delivered newspapers door to door every morning before heading to class. After finishing school, he left home to study languages in another town about 150km away at an institute run by a charity.
To support himself, he taught students literature in his mother tongue, Tamil, and saved what little he could and gave the money to his mother in his home village whenever he returned on holidays.
When he was 21 years old, he moved from his village Tiruvannamalai to Chennai. The move from village to city was a daunting one in those days, made without safety nets.
But Appa made it work with quiet determination. Not for luxury, but for forward movement. For education. For a life of dignity.
He became a language teacher, and teaching became both his profession and his passion.
In his early years, he worked at a school that was little more than a hut, without a proper roof.
In addition to his regular teaching duties, he organised events and competitions to raise money so the school could one day have a proper building.
He believed that children deserved an uninterrupted space to learn without distractions or dangers, protected from rain and scorching heat.
Appa was always full of life. He swam. He played sports. He acted in plays with students and fellow teachers.
And every night, no matter how packed his day had been, he would be home to spend hours more with his books.
Looking back, I can see now that his was the kind of energy that comes from purpose rather than rest – he was building a life aligned with what he valued.
Learning, for him, was not something one finished; it was something one returned to, willingly and repeatedly, with quiet enthusiasm.
He completed much of his education after marriage, earning postgraduate qualifications slowly and determinedly while managing full-time work and raising a family.
He never spoke of these as achievements. Only years later did I begin to recognise the remarkable efforts he'd put into learning – not for praise, but for the love of learning itself and a persistent determination to keep up with changing times.
A TEACHER OF LIFE
In our home, love was not always dramatic or demonstrative. My parents were busy trying to feed and educate six children. There were few dinners out and even fewer grand celebrations.
Yet joy found its way into our lives in other quieter forms.
The ride to school on Appa's bicycle was often the only uninterrupted time I had with him in his packed schedule.
Each morning, we would take to the streets of mid-1970s Chennai, a time when bicycles far outnumbered cars and small food stalls lined the roads.
We wove our way through vendors calling out to breakfast customers, and people pausing in the middle of the street to exchange quick greetings before moving on. It was busy, but not hurried in the way cities feel today.
As we rode through that gentle bustle, Appa would alternate between telling me riddles or jokes, and narrating stories – sometimes from history or literature, sometimes simply from his own life.
Sometimes he would sing instead – uplifting songs, as if to remind both of us to face the day ahead with courage.
Having had the privilege of attending his Tamil classes, I can also say that Appa was, quite simply, one of the best language teachers I have ever known.
His classrooms often held more students than were officially assigned, as pupils from other classes would drift in just to listen.
He recited Tamil poetry and English verses effortlessly. He was a great storyteller, bringing even difficult ideas to life with colourful analogies and metaphors.
His discipline with time was legendary. Classes began each day exactly on the dot.
He taught without books. He remembered precisely where he had ended the previous lesson, as though the text lived inside him.
He was a champion of care through consistency. Years later, when his students became accomplished doctors, chartered accountants, lawyers and senior police officers, they still spoke of him with affection.
Many called him the "best teacher" they'd had. Some could still recite memorable quotes from him.
It was as if his voice had continued within them, long after he had finished speaking.
WITHOUT COMPLAINT, WITHOUT EXPECTATION
Appa's giving extended beyond classrooms.
Social work mattered deeply to him – child welfare, adult education, the kind of quiet initiatives that are never meant for applause.
He believed that knowledge must eventually return to society as service. He lived by a simple principle: do the work fully, without complaint and without expectation.
He also believed that dignity lay in living within one's means and so, he was frugal out of necessity, but also by choice. Even in difficult times, he avoided borrowing.
He often expressed to us that expectations create pain. It was far better, he believed, to do what is right and let outcomes take care of themselves.
And yet, when it came to education or health, he spent without hesitation. He believed in choosing what truly mattered without regret.
Even as age made him frail, he refused to stop being himself.
He continued reading, writing and speaking. When his hands weakened, he steadied one with the other and kept writing. His memory remained sharp.
His work ethic never softened. He prepared for every task as if it mattered deeply – and perhaps it did as time grew more precious.
He often quoted from the classic masterpiece Thirukkural by the great Tamil philosopher-poet Thiruvalluvar: "To the wise, a day is a sharpened sword / cutting steadily through the span of life."
Appa gave 200 per cent in everything he did – not because someone was watching, but because that was the standard he had always set for himself.
APPA'S LEGACY
In 2012, my father had a fall and was unwell for a brief period, with his movement restricted.
For our family, it was a quiet but difficult adjustment to watch someone who had never rested, who had always kept going, forced to finally slow down.
Whenever I called to check on him, he would say, in his calm, steady voice: "I'm very fine."
A few months later, he died peacefully at home, surrounded by family, listening to his favourite rhymes recited by his two loving granddaughters. There was much grief and sadness, but also a dignified sense of closure – a fitting end to a life lived completely.
Even after Appa's death, we were still discovering his steadying wisdom and guidance.
When my siblings and I grew up and went abroad, we each began sending home whatever little money we could to Appa for his expenses.
Only years later did we discover that Appa had never spent a cent.
Instead, he had been saving all of it for my mother, so she could live comfortably after he was gone. Even in death, he was still taking care of her.
Today, I live and work in a different country, in a very different time, at a very different pace.Â
Yet I find myself guided by the lessons my father taught me – not through advice or verbal instruction, but by the life he had led. Live with purpose, work with integrity, care for people, serve quietly, waste no time, expect nothing in return.
And now, when I hear a bicycle bell in a quiet street late at night, I pause. The sound still brings forth memories of my father returning home after another long day spent living out values of compassion and consistency – just as it did all those years ago.
A steady, grounding joy fills me, the way it did when I was a child watching my father sitting down to his books each night. It reminds me of who I am and where I come from.
And so, when that soft trill rings through the darkness, I smile with gratitude.
Prakash Natarajan is co-founder of Sustainable Gaia, a sustainability consultancy.
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