When a book becomes a mirror: My journey with "Companions"

Raju Korti
Some books don't just speak to you. They whisper into your soul, stir your silences, and leave you changed. Sobati, written in Marathi by my long-time friend of over three decades, Chandrashekhar Welankar, is one such book. Its English avatar, Companions, which I had the privilege of translating, wasn't merely a linguistic exercise. It was a journey into the deep crevices of pain, dignity, detachment, and silent caregiving -- themes that had once scarred my own life in ways I hadn’t fully processed until I encountered this manuscript.

The emotional tumult began the day I received Sobati. As I turned its pages, I felt a strange stirring -- a pull so visceral that I had to pause often, my eyes clouding over, my chest tightening with memories I had tried to archive. I could not have anticipated how closely this book would echo my own life. The stories of terminal patients and the companions who stood by them -- quietly, faithfully -- weren’t just narratives. They were relived experiences.

In March 1982, my life took a cruel, irreversible turn. My father, a proud, fiercely independent man, suddenly became paralyzed waist-down due to spinal compression. He underwent emergency surgery, but it was too late. His nerves had degenerated beyond repair. What followed was an eight-year-long stretch of slow, excruciating decay. A man who once took pride in being self-sufficient now had to rely entirely on me, his youngest son, to pass urine and stools, shave, bathe, and be fed. He never accepted it emotionally -- and his sense of helplessness weighed heavier than his physical agony. His pain became mine. While the world saw me performing media duties on odd shifts with a steady face, only my nights knew the pillow soaked in silent tears. No one -- no agency, no individual -- was willing to offer the kind of committed care he required, even for exorbitant sums. Finally, I took it upon myself to be his sole caregiver. I became his Companion. I remained one until he died in my arms on a quiet March morning in 1990. After that, I felt as if someone had unplugged the meaning from my life. Unemployed, emotionally battered, and hollowed out, I struggled to find anchorage.

It was Sobati that gave me that anchor years later. Translating it became my way of honouring not just my father but the thousands of invisible caregivers who walk the thin line between hope and heartbreak every day. The stories -- delicate, sensitive, non-sentimental yet deeply moving -- illuminate the world of Companions who, though not biologically connected, choose to stand by someone on their final stretch of life. As I wrote in the Translator’s Note, “Somewhere in the narratives, I found myself returning to my father’s bedside, holding his frail hand, whispering courage into his tired ears.”

Companions isn’t just a book -- it is a call. A call to become that quiet, steady presence in someone’s time of darkness. It tries to build empathy around caregiving -- an act often unnoticed, uncelebrated, and emotionally draining. It isn’t about heroic sacrifice. It is about dignifying the last lap of someone’s journey with love, patience, and presence. This book, in its humble way, asks society to not look away from the terminally ill -- and from those who walk with them, one slow step at a time.

And none of this would have been possible without Shekhar Bhau -- as I fondly call Chandrashekhar Welankar -- whose resilience, sensitivity and vision have left me moved. That he should have penned this monumental work while caring for his own wife, Varsha, an extremely delicate kidney patient who undergoes dialysis three times a week, speaks volumes. Despite her frailty, Varsha has stood firm and unflinching -- not just by his side, but beside a larger cause. Together, they have given birth to something deeply human and revolutionary -- the Sobati Sanstha.

 It is more than a foundation; it is the start of a movement. One that I hope grows into a robust tribe -- a collective of Companions who don’t shy away from pain but hold space for it, who become that quiet shadow of comfort when someone is standing at the edge of life.

At the release function of Companions in Nagpur on July 5 -- a city where my father took his last breath -- I couldn’t help but feel that the circle had closed gently, silently. I had written in my speech: “Sobati didn’t ask me to revisit my past. It simply handed me a mirror. And in that mirror, I saw my father. I saw myself. I saw us.

”I remain grateful -- to Shekhar Bhau for trusting me with this translation, and to Varsha for being the quiet warrior that she is. May their work find wings. May more Companions rise. And may this movement ensure that no one ever walks their last mile alone.