20 June,2021 07:56 AM IST | Mumbai | Jane Borges
Nabila Sadiq, Surekha Pillai and Gaurav Probir Pramanik
Imaginary friends. Do they even exist, except maybe, in the innocent minds of little children? Yet, that's how columnist-podcaster Amit Varma and Surekha Pillai described their friendship. They had never met. But they chatted a lot online, sharing the poems they loved, exchanging long emails, and fun banter. When Varma lost his father in April this year, Pillai sent him a heartwarming letter. "She embodied some old-world ways that seemed out of sorts on Twitter⦠Who writes long letters anymore?" he asks us now. That was the last email she sent him. "She promised to come home with family when she moved to Mumbai. âWhen COVID is over.' It isn't. She won't," he wrote in a Twitter thread, on hearing of her sudden demise to Covid-19 last week.
Pillai, a public relations consultant, was a friend to everyone. Her most endearing quality was her "empathy and understanding," remembers Varma. The outpouring of tributes following her death came from everywhere, mostly from those who had never had the chance, occasion or reason to meet Pillai in person. They knew her on Twitter, where she was a bubble of positivity, hope and love, a word she used so generously and always had such an inexhaustible supply of, say friends, that it made them often wonder, if she was even real. "She wasn't into the easy posturing and rush to judgment that Twitter is known for, and always wanted to understand the human behind the avatar. She built a personal rapport with so many people on Twitter by being so genuine," recalls Varma.
This Friday, her friends on social media, and otherwise, came together for a Zoom memorial to celebrate the life she lived, and the many hearts she touched. She is survived by her husband, teenage daughter, mother and sister.
"In today's world, especially now in the lockdown, we don't meet our physical friends often. I probably know more about my Instagram friends' lives, like what they ate for lunch, or where they've been of late. That's how it is. The lines have blurred," says Parmesh Shahani, author, explaining why "digital bonds" have become deeper and more personal. Shahani recently lost his decade-old friend, Gaurav Probir Pramanik, a proud gay man and queer activist, to cancer. "Though I never met Gaurav, I felt closer to him than any of my friends in the real world," he admits. The death of such a friend can make grieving even more upending. You miss them. Not them in person. But, perhaps, their comforting tweet. Or a DM, when you are down in the dumps. A goofy photograph maybe, or even their infectious smile. It's all the stuff one would consider surface level, because of the nature of social media, but the virtual life that Pramanik and Pillai lived, proved otherwise.
Everyone who was connected with Pillai knew her, because she was there for them. Even as this writer tried to delve deeper into her life and career as an independent communications consultant, Varma pointed out: "I don't think her professional self has anything to do with why she is remembered."
In a blog that Pillai penned in 2010, she described herself as a "PR by accident". Her calling came in the early 1990s, when one day, "while flipping through the Tata Press Yellow Pages" she saw an entry for "Good Relations". This led her to Suvendu Banerjee, under whom she learnt the basics of PR. Not everything about the job was fun, she wrote, the toughest being, "the often inexplicable rudeness of journalists". "Despite all the heart burn PR has given me, if given a chance to go back 17 years, I would flip those yellow pages all over again," she wrote.
Like many, filmmaker and Sunday mid-day columnist Paromita Vohra met Pillai on Twitter. "Surekha was among the early Indians on the platform. It was a smaller community then. I joined Twitter quite late, 2012 maybe, and that too, for professional reasons. I was quite reticent there. At the time, Surekha probably had some 22K followers, which was a large number in those days. I must have seen her tweets and found them funny, and started following her."
Vohra remembers some of Pillai's "faaltu games" on Twitter, which she enjoyed. "Once, she put out this tweet, âjab tak rahega samose main aaloo, complete the sentence and you will win a prize'. I don't know what I wrote, but Surekha said, âThat's a prize-winning entry, now what do you want?' I said yellow shoes. The next day, I got two pictures on my timeline of some preposterous pair of yellow-coloured shoes. She was a very easy and inclusive person, and for someone like me, who was not comfortable being my full self on social media, this was a simple way [to put me at ease]." At some point, Pillai began following Vohra's columns closely, leading to exchanges on DM. "And that's where we really began to know each other personally." They eventually met in Delhi, where Pillai lived before moving to Mumbai recently. "It was a great afternoon," Vohra recalls. "And, when we were saying bye, she said, âI love you, dude'. And, the thing is that she wasn't making it up. To my mind this is a parallel to how intimacies are formed, which are lasting offline as well."
Vohra adds, "A friend doesn't just make you realise how enjoyable they are, but also how enjoyable you are to them." Pillai, she says, knew how to do that. "She was an extraordinary person, who could give so much of herself to others."
Karthika VK, publisher, Westland Publications Ltd, says one of her earliest interactions with Pillai on Twitter was in early 2020, during the Shaheen Bagh protest, where Pillai, say friends, had stood steadfastly with the protesters every single day without really advertising her presence. "We had released two books around that time, and Surekha got in touch with me over Twitter DM saying that she'd like to have them at the library at the protest site. We ended up sending her more books. She reached out to me later saying that she'd like to put up a photograph of the books, and that I didn't have to acknowledge that I had given them, if I wanted to be anonymous, considering how guarded people were being with their show of support. We were really happy to take ownership for it. But yes, she was very careful like that." The last time Karthika heard from her was recently in April, when she had reached out for oxygen for a colleague's father. "She immediately sent me a DM, with a list of contacts. We were so caught up with the search that I forgot to thank her. When I did, she replied saying, âno thanks needed. We are all the same.' Everything she said was very kind. She wanted to make things better, and that's what she kept tweeting about. In all this insanity that we've been through in the last one year, she was this one smiling person."
Journalist Peter Griffin says that Pillai was a wonderful combination of "vulnerability and strength". She'd brush off trolls, without letting them affect her. "There was this one time, late into the night, when she messaged me, and I was a bit low. I told her that, and she said, âDo you want to come out of this phase, or do you want to be there for some more time?' This to me was beautiful, because, while she understood that I needed to figure my way out, she also felt it was important for me to know that there was someone there who was willing to help, without pushing themselves too hard."
Like Pillai, Siliguri-based Pramanik too, say friends, was on Twitter to simply spread love, and receive even more. His activism first drew attention in September 2018, when he called out his former boss at Tech Mahindra, where he worked between 2013 and 2016, for subjecting him to repeated harassment and homophobic remarks. The employee was sacked soon after. Shahani, who at the time was still working on the idea of his latest title Queeristan, which discusses the LGBTQiA+ inclusion in the Indian workplace, knew Pramanik had to be part of it. "We had messaged each other years ago, on a dating app. We enjoyed chatting then, but it evolved into a wonderful social media friendship. We never ended up meeting, but we kept checking in on each other whenever possible. Our bond was very much about support and solidarity, especially after the horrific incident he'd been through. Even when he shared his story with me for the book, over a telephonic chat, he was very clear that the incident hadn't scarred him. He was quite brave." When Pramanik was diagnosed with melanoma, which had spread to his lungs, he used his Twitter account not just as a diary to talk about his cancer journey, but also give hope to other cancer fighters - he'd proudly share pictures of his scars, helping people deal with the physical deformities that accompanied the disease.
It's cancer that brought 37-year-old Pramanik close to Viji Venkatesh, region head, India and South Asia at The Max Foundation, which provides cancer patients around the world with access to lifesaving treatment and care. "I started following him, while coming across some of his posts about cancer. The way he spoke about it was very inspiring. He was so, âokay' about it, and had no qualms about telling people if he was miserable, angry, or even frightened. I believe firmly in that. You have to let the sorrow flow, and he understood that." Despite being charmed by Pramanik, Venkatesh remembers waiting it out before reaching out to him. "Social media can be very invasive, and probably it's my age, or the stage that I am in life, that prevents me from taking the initiative. But, he did reach out, and it was nice."
Bengaluru-based Priyashmita Guha came in touch with the force that was Pramanik exactly a year ago, when she was looking to raise funds for those who were affected by Cyclone Amphan, through an online event. "Even when he reached out to me, I knew that his life was short. But despite that, he was so full of life. Another thing about Gaurav was that he loved people loving him."
His enthusiasm to raise funds was such that he'd often insist on joining Zoom calls, even when he was on the ICU bed. For Durga puja last year, he insisted that the whole team dress up in the different colours of the festival, and celebrate the festivities over Zoom. "And because Gaurav was excited, we became excited about it too. For my lockdown birthday, he along with another friend put together a lovely video with all Twitter friends sending me wishes. It still brings tears to my eyes," says Guha.
His mum, whose pictures he shared often with the hashtag #MotherPramanik, was an important part of the life, and whom he didn't shy away from showing off to his followers. "She was the wind beneath his wings. And possibly his love for his mother is also what endeared him to the world," feels Guha.
When he passed on in March this year, Guha remembers experiencing a near breakdown. "Another dear friend of ours, who was a cancer survivor herself, was completely devastated by the news. What he meant to people like her, was hope. He used to believe that he would survive. And for a lot of cancer survivors and fighters, that meant something. She somehow felt that if he could make it, she'd too."
Where social media allows you room to be yourself, it also gives you the freedom to enjoy an anonymous existence.
Dr Nabila Sadiq, a 38-year-old PhD scholar from JNU, and an assistant professor from Jamia Millia Islamia, who died of Covid-19 at a Faridabad hospital on May 17, revelled in her nameless presence on social media. "She was very particular about not having her name dropped. Once, when I tagged and named her by mistake, she got really upset and immediately demanded that I delete the tweet," says social media friend Manjari Singh from Lucknow, who first became acquainted with Sadiq over 13 years ago, on an Orkut community. It's only after her followers retweeted one of her lasts posts, asking for leads on ICU beds, that her identity was made known.
An avid blogger, Sadiq shared a lot of poetry themed around love and relationships, online. Delhi-based Dipti Malhotra stumbled upon her work, around 13 years ago. "This was the time, when there was no Twitter or Instagram, and I used to read regularly. She would often drop comments on my daily ramblings, and I grew fond of her," she says. Through comments and exchanges, Sadiq, Malhotra and another friend, fashion blogger and digital creator Sonal Arora, became tight friends. Their friendship spilled over to social media, before they decided to meet five years later.
Though candid on the web, Sadiq remained an introvert outside. Arora describes her as a "mysterious" person. "Whenever we met, she hardly spoke about her personal life. It didn't show in her writings. If you read her poems, you'd get a sense that she was quite emotional and an absolute romantic at heart." Dipti agrees. "She was a private person; she would not divulge much and I did not pry either. She shared as much as she wanted to and I listened."
Sadiq, say friends, made it to Delhi's Jamia Milia Islamia as a professor of gender studies after a lot of struggle. "Despite the hopelessness that came with not getting a job, she never gave up. She was very passionate about teaching, and cared deeply about education. Her students were everything to her," adds Singh.
During the last one year, Sadiq who was asthmatic, refused to step out of home, due to the fear of contracting the Coronavirus infection. "She was most worried about her parents falling sick," says Singh.
Sadiq passed away four days after her mother died of Covid-19 complications. "She was just too pure for the world," says Malhotra, adding, "And for someone who would not even reveal her name on Twitter, she was suddenly everywhere in the news. There were two prayer meetings held for her, and her colleagues, professors, students, and friends wanted to be there, and hear and speak about her. I hope that she somehow found out that everybody did love her."
