DEEPAK — THE LIGHT THAT REMAINS
A Son’s Memoir of Sardar Kuldip Singh Chadha
It is difficult to write about one's father.
For a son, a father is not simply a person whose life can be described through dates, achievements and milestones. He is part of the landscape of one's childhood—the voice you grow up hearing, the presence you take for granted, the smile you recognise from across a crowded room, and the person whose approval matters even when you are old enough to no longer need it.
For me, my father was Daddy Ji.
Before he was the student, the writer, the journalist, the government officer, the administrator, the social worker or the patriarch of a large family, he was simply the man I looked up to as my father.
As a child, I did not understand the full measure of his life. I did not know what it meant to have been born in Quetta, to have been uprooted by Partition at the age of twenty, or to rebuild a life from the uncertainties of displacement. I did not fully appreciate the significance of his work in the Ministry of Rehabilitation, his academic achievements, or his years at Heavy Engineering Corporation in Ranchi.
What I did know was the man who came home.
The man with the radiant smile.
The man whose presence made the family feel secure.
The man who could quietly explain something to a child and, decades later, leave that child still thinking about his words.
One such memory has stayed with me all my life.
I was about ten years old when I noticed that, during our summer journeys by train, some of our neighbours travelled first class while we travelled second class. I could not understand why. My father smiled and simply said:
“Beta, the money saved goes toward buying fans for Guru Nanak Home.”
I did not realise it then, but that one sentence contained a lesson about my father that would take me many years to fully understand.
He was willing to give up a little of his own comfort so that someone else could have something they needed.
That was Daddy Ji.
He rarely preached about values.
He lived them.
As I grew older, I came to discover the remarkable story behind the man I had known simply as my father. His life had begun in pre-Partition India, in Quetta, with family roots in Gujar Khan, Rawalpindi District. At barely twenty, he experienced the upheaval of Partition and was forced, along with his family, to begin again in Lucknow.
He rebuilt his life through education, writing, public service and professional endeavour. He helped rehabilitate displaced persons, worked for students whose education had been disrupted by Partition, built a career in heavy engineering, supported his siblings and devoted himself to the service of persons with disabilities.
Yet, when I think of him, I do not first think of his designations.
I think of his smile.
I think of his generosity.
I think of his instinct to help.
And I think of the extraordinary privilege of having been his son.
There are some lives that are measured in years.
And then there are lives that are measured in the number of people they touched, the lives they changed, and the values they quietly passed on to the generations that followed.
My father, Sardar Kuldip Singh Chadha, lovingly known to us as Daddy Ji, belonged to the latter category.
He lived for 99 years. But to speak only of his age would be to miss the essence of his life. His was a journey through one of the most turbulent periods of our nation's history—from Partition and displacement to rebuilding, service, professional accomplishment and, above all, an unwavering commitment to family and to those less fortunate.
Looking back today, I realise that my father's greatest achievement was not a position he held or an award he received.
It was the way he lived.
From Quetta to a New Beginning
My father was born in Quetta, now in Pakistan, with our family roots in Gujar Khan, Rawalpindi District.
He was barely twenty when the Partition of India changed the course of his life.
Like millions of others, he and his family were uprooted from their home and forced to begin again. They eventually resettled in Lucknow.
For a young man of twenty, the upheaval must have been enormous. A familiar world had disappeared almost overnight. Yet, what remained was something that would define him throughout his life—resilience.
He did not allow displacement to become a reason for bitterness. Instead, he made rebuilding his life and helping others rebuild theirs his mission.
That, perhaps, was one of the earliest lessons he taught us without ever formally teaching it:
Circumstances may change your surroundings, but they need not determine your character.
The Young Writer Behind the Name “Deepak”
There is a fascinating and relatively lesser-known chapter of my father's youth that explains the name by which many people came to know him.
During his college days, my father had a natural flair for writing. Alongside his studies, he worked as a part-time journalist and freelance writer.
Writing came naturally to him. He had the ability to observe, think and express himself with clarity. His journalistic work brought his writing abilities to the notice of others, and it was through this association with journalism that he acquired the suffix “Deepak” to his name.
Over time, the name stayed.
What began in his youth as a name associated with his writing and journalistic work eventually became an integral part of his identity.
To many people who knew him, he was Kuldip Singh Chadha Deepak.
To us, he was simply Daddy Ji.
The story behind the name reveals another facet of his personality. Even as a young man, he was not content merely to acquire a degree. He was curious about the world around him and possessed the ability and inclination to put his thoughts into words.
That early association with journalism and writing was, in many ways, a reflection of the intellectual curiosity that remained with him throughout his life.
A Life Dedicated to Rehabilitation
After Partition, my father devoted himself to the rehabilitation of displaced persons.
He served as a Custodian in the Ministry of Rehabilitation, at a time when the newly independent nation was struggling with one of the greatest humanitarian challenges in its history.
He worked under the leadership of Shri C. R. Deshmukh and the then Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh, Pandit Govind Ballabh Pant.
But it was not merely a government posting for him.
For my father, rehabilitation was about people.
He understood that behind every file, every application and every government order was a human being trying to rebuild a life.
One episode from that period has remained particularly significant in our family.
My father worked to secure approval from Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel for promoting students whose education had been disrupted by Partition.
It was a deeply humane intervention.
At a time when families had lost homes, livelihoods and possessions, education was one thing that could help young people reclaim their future.
My father's concern was that no young life should be left behind simply because history had been cruel to it.
That principle stayed with him for the rest of his life.
Education Was Always Sacred
Perhaps it is fitting that education occupied such an important place in his life.
My father was an alumnus of Khalsa College, Amritsar, where he completed his graduation when the institution was affiliated with Panjab University, Lahore, before Partition.
Khalsa College, established in 1892, was already a distinguished institution in the region.
Partition changed borders, institutions and affiliations. Yet education continued to be a bridge across those changes.
My father's B.Sc. degree bears a particularly interesting piece of history—it was signed when Panjab University was headquartered in Solan.
Later, he pursued his LL.B. from Meerut, where, coincidentally, I was born.
He excelled in law and was a Gold Medallist.
For me, this is more than a matter of academic achievement.
It represents the intellectual discipline that characterised him. He believed in education, but he also believed that education carried a responsibility—to use one's knowledge meaningfully.
From Rehabilitation to Heavy Engineering
When the Ministry of Rehabilitation was disbanded in 1960, my father began another chapter of his professional life.
He joined the Heavy Engineering Corporation (HEC) in Ranchi.
It was a significant transition—from rehabilitation work in government to the world of heavy industry.
He served HEC until his retirement, eventually rising to the position of Assistant General Manager, Administration.
His career reflected a quality that I repeatedly saw in him: he never chased titles for their own sake.
Responsibility came first.
Position followed.
And wherever he worked, people mattered more to him than hierarchy.
A Brother Among Nine
Another important but less visible chapter of my father's life was his role within his own family.
He was one of nine siblings, with two sisters older than him.
Although he was not the eldest of the nine, he carried a deep sense of responsibility towards his younger brothers and sisters. As the family grew and circumstances changed, he became an important source of guidance and support to his younger siblings.
He took an active interest in their education and careers and played his part in helping them establish themselves in life.
This was not unusual behaviour for him. Looking after others was woven into his personality.
The same instinct that later led him to devote himself to rehabilitation work and to the Guru Nanak Home was already evident within his own family.
He believed that when you were in a position to help someone, you should.
There was no calculation involved.
His sense of responsibility extended beyond his immediate household—to siblings, relatives, colleagues, friends and eventually to people he did not even know personally.
That was simply who he was.
The Journey from Comfort to Compassion
One of my earliest memories of understanding my father's values came from a seemingly insignificant incident.
I was about ten years old.
During our summer vacations, we travelled by train. I noticed that some of our neighbours, who appeared to have a similar social and financial standing, travelled first class.
We travelled second class.
Like any ten-year-old, I was curious.
I asked my father why.
He smiled gently and replied:
“Beta, the money saved goes toward buying fans for Guru Nanak Home.”
That one sentence stayed with me.
At ten, I understood the literal meaning.
As an adult, I understand its deeper significance.
My father had consciously chosen to sacrifice a little of his own comfort so that someone else could live a little more comfortably.
There was no speech.
No announcement.
No expectation of recognition.
Just a decision.
And that decision contained his entire philosophy of life.
If something could be saved from oneself and given to someone who needed it more, it was worth doing.
Guru Nanak Home — Service Beyond the Self
My father's commitment to service found another important expression in his association with the Guru Nanak Home for Handicapped Persons in Ranchi, where he served as its President.
He devoted considerable time and energy to the growth of the institution and to improving the lives of the people it served.
This was not charity in the superficial sense.
He believed in dignity.
He wanted people with disabilities to receive care, opportunity and respect.
The Home was not simply an organisation to him. It represented people who deserved to be treated with compassion and dignity.
This aspect of his life perhaps explains many of the choices he made in his personal life.
He was prepared to compromise on his own comforts.
He was not prepared to compromise on the dignity of another person.
The Man Behind the Smile
Those who knew my father will probably remember his radiant smile.
There was something distinctive about his presence.
He had a larger-than-life personality, but he did not need to demand attention.
His generosity was instinctive.
His kindness was natural.
And his ability to put other people's needs before his own was not something he consciously displayed—it was simply part of his character.
For us, his children, this created an interesting paradox.
When you grow up with someone like that, you don't always recognise the uniqueness of what you are witnessing.
You think it is normal.
You think all fathers are like that.
It is only later, when life gives you enough perspective, that you realise:
No. Not everyone is like that.
And that realisation makes the memory even more precious.
A Family of Three Children
My father is survived by two sons and a daughter.
Our family, like every family, has known both joy and sorrow.
I lost one of my two elder brothers in a tragic road accident when he was still in his forties.
Such losses leave an emptiness that never completely disappears.
Yet my father's ability to remain the family's anchor through difficult times was remarkable.
He carried his own grief while continuing to hold the family together.
That was another of his quiet strengths.
He rarely made his burdens someone else's burden.
What Did He Actually Leave Us?
When we think of inheritance, we normally think of property, savings or possessions.
My father left us something far more valuable.
He left us principles.
He taught us that education matters.
That displacement does not have to destroy hope.
That professional success carries responsibility.
That one's own comfort can sometimes be sacrificed for another person's need.
That people with disabilities deserve dignity.
That family responsibilities should be embraced rather than avoided.
And perhaps most importantly:
That a good life is not defined by how much we accumulate, but by how much good we leave behind.
The 99th Birthday
The photographs and memories surrounding my father's 99th birthday capture something that words alone cannot.
They show a family gathered around its patriarch.
They show affection.
They show generations.
They show the passage of time.
And behind every smile in those photographs is a story.
A young man who had once been uprooted from Quetta.
A student who pursued education despite the uncertainties of Partition.
A young writer and freelance journalist who came to be known as Deepak.
A government servant who worked for displaced families.
A professional who built a career in Ranchi.
A brother who helped shape the lives of his younger siblings.
A President who served persons with disabilities.
A husband.
A father.
A grandfather.
And, eventually, the beloved patriarch of a family that had grown across generations.
When I look at those images today, I see much more than a birthday celebration.
I see a life being remembered while it was still being lived.
My Father, My Deepak
The name Deepak did not come from a metaphor.
It came from his own words and his own work.
It belonged to the young man who wrote, reported and freelanced during his college years.
It was earned through his ability with the written word.
But with the passage of time, I cannot help seeing another meaning in it.
A deepak is a small source of light.
And, in retrospect, the name seems almost symbolic of the life he went on to live.
He spent his life helping others find their way—whether displaced families struggling to rebuild after Partition, students whose education had been disrupted, younger members of his own family, or persons with disabilities seeking dignity and opportunity.
He did not set out to become a symbol.
He simply lived according to his values.
And perhaps that is why the metaphor resonates so deeply with me today.
Deepak was the name he earned as a young writer.
The light is the legacy he left as a father.
The Greatest Gift
Every child receives many gifts from his parents.
Some are tangible.
Some are forgotten.
But occasionally, a parent gives a child something that lasts a lifetime—the example of how to live.
That was my father's greatest gift to us.
He showed us, rather than told us, what integrity looks like.
What compassion looks like.
What service looks like.
What family means.
I often think that perhaps we can never fully become the people our parents were.
We are, in many ways, only shadows of their generation—the generation that endured Partition, rebuilt lives from almost nothing, and learned to value what truly mattered.
But we can carry their values forward.
We can try.
And that is what I hope we, his children, continue to do.
The Light Remains
My father lived for 99 years.
Ninety-nine years of history.
Ninety-nine years of relationships.
Ninety-nine years of service, family, sacrifice, laughter, hardship and hope.
His physical journey eventually came to an end.
But I do not believe that a life like his ends with death.
It continues in the lives he touched.
In the institutions he served.
In the siblings whose lives he helped shape.
In the children he raised.
In the values he passed on.
In the stories we tell.
And in the choices we make because of what he taught us.
For me, he will always remain the young man from Quetta who lost almost everything and chose to rebuild.
The student.
The gold medallist.
The writer and journalist.
The rehabilitation officer.
The HEC administrator.
The brother.
The philanthropist.
The father.
The smiling face at the centre of our family.
Our Daddy Ji.
Our Deepak.
And perhaps the most fitting tribute to him is not to say that he was extraordinary.
It is to say that he made ordinary acts of goodness seem natural.
That is a legacy worth preserving.
That is a life worth remembering.
And that is the light that remains.
Daddy Ji, your journey may have ended, but your light continues to guide us.
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