Mumbai: I am not one to cry. I did not when my dad passed away. Or when my brother was cruelly taken away from us. I certainly didn’t when Pratap Bose called a permanent time out. My tears are not shed through my eyes, but my fingers. And they have all the wetness that words on a screen can muster.
Life, I have come to believe, is not truly measured in accolades won, legacy carved by the chisel of ambition, or things acquired. It is in memories created. Pratap overachieved on that scale. As he did with many others.
So many of us who adored the man, and it was rather hard not to, have remembrances of him jiving in our hearts to sixties rock’n roll. What can I say, the man was fond of the classics.
One of my memories of him involves this thing called dancing. Imagine one reasonably overweight man, and another unreasonably so, moving to the grooving on the sands in front of a shack. Next to the Goafest venue. It was a victory jig. But I must confess, it did not look anything like it.
I remember our drunken voices murdering an Adele song at a nightclub in Bali. The times when he believed harder than I did. The moment I got him to try my favourite flavour at an ice cream parlour in Saint Paul de Vence. He still hated it. The days when he dragged me through all the art galleries around Cannes. The moments before meetings when he calmed the chaos running rampant through me.
This obituary has been written by Havas Group chairman & chief creative officer Bobby Pawar.
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