He died the way he lived; ministering to the ones who needed him most

Today, we buried a much loved cousin and humanitarian. A paediatrician attached to Diyatalawa Hospital, he had worked in the Uva province for many years and was actively involved in the health and wellbeing of the many disadvantaged children who flocked to him from far-flung regions.

And he died, one would think, in the way he wanted; in the hospital that he visited every day, including weekends, ministering to the ones who needed him most. All the efforts of his fellow colleagues and allied staff, of which there were many, were futile in the end.

And, as with thousands of others in similar plight in these dreadful times, we watched from many corners of the world the final rites of an exceptional human being; unable to be present, tearful and frustrated, that no one not even his beloved wife Nuala and three sons Geethika, Nushane and Thasun could be near him to hold his hand, to let him know how much they loved him, to hear the sorrow and weeping of parents and the little ones he had cared for and nursed through so many years. And the ones to come.

I first met him when he was a little boy growing up in their modest home in Lunawa; an exceptionally talented pianist from an early age, his little feet too short to reach the pedals but nevertheless, pounding away at that keyboard. Marriage to one of his first cousins enabled me to keep in touch with his growing up and educational successes dotted with scholarships, both in Sri Lanka and overseas. He had a wide and varied education in the U.S and Britain that brought to light his intelligence and commitment, an unwavering drive to serve his Motherland, to repay the debt he owed to the land that nurtured and educated him. No lucrative offers of employment from well-known medical institutions in many western countries tempted him. He had only one home, Sri Lanka.

A few years ago, I spent a couple of days at his and Nuala’s beautiful home in Bandarawela. He was, as usual, extremely busy with his work but made time to talk about family and our lives and work in Australia. He was never busy to visit or enquire into the health and well-being of his wide family circle during his visits to Moratuwa. We met him again, very briefly, when he attended his niece’s wedding in Melbourne, but rushed back as he had been granted only a week’s leave by his department.

So he went, as so many good people have under the circumstances we all live in these days, without the honour and acclaim they so richly deserve, working selflessly to serve those in need with no thought of the sacrifices they make, the risks and dangers they take, to make all our lives and our world better.

And we, who can only watch helplessly from the sidelines, can only be consoled and comforted by the way such people have enriched our lives.

Rest in peace, dear Tiraj, what an honour and privilege it was to have known you.