Page 136 - A Life Well-Lived Is a Beautiful Memory

to you?” he teased, unveiling a charm that would become a defining feature of our connection.
Then, as if handing me a peace offering, he said, “Call me Bhanu (pronounced as Panu).” And

so, I finally knew his name.
Days turned into weeks, and we started talking. Politics fueled our initial bond, driven by
shared outrage at our countries’ woes. But amidst the passionate rants, we sprinkled in humor
and quotes from “The Little Prince,” proving we weren’t just doom and gloom. Music became

another common thread – Bach, Beethoven, the Beatles, and Mozart, all graced our playlists.
Dreams were our dessert. Bhanu, the gentle soul, aspired to be a teacher, a sponge soaking up
knowledge. Me? I craved a buffet of ambition – science, politics, art, literature. Simple Bhanu,
complex me. Yet, as Bhanu once said, “We see the world the same way, you and me. We understand

each other completely.” Two halves of a whole, we did not know what we were missing until we
found each other.
Weeks flew by like leaves during a Philippine typhoon, and as the “Consequences of Farm
Mechanization” workshop concluded, reality hit – Bhanu had to return to Bangkok. It was now or

never; he had to confess his feelings before risking losing his dream girl to the allure of a tractor.
Being the practical and frugal man he was, Bhanu sought the advice of a wise Filipina friend.
Little did I know, I was about to be proposed to not with roses or a diamond ring, but with ice
cream. At that moment, I realized I had met a man who understood that the way to my heart was

through my stomach (literally). Amidst melting drips of peach-flavored ice cream, we vowed to
spend the rest of our lives together, marking the commencement of our 45-year odyssey, beginning
at the ripe old ages of 22 and 24.
Fast forward a few months, and we found ourselves in Baltimore, Maryland, USA, as

international students. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times... especially when it came
to cooking. Culinary black holes both, our meals resembled science experiments gone wrong:
mystery meat roulette, charred chicken masquerading as dinner, and pasta mush.
To avert imminent malnutrition, Bhanu (bless his resourceful heart) took charge, whipping up

Thai feasts for weeks. Carrot somtum became our weekly staple, while I, thankfully, mastered
the art of not setting the kitchen on fire. Bhanu’s culinary prowess earned him the permanent
chef title, especially since my classes were miles away from Johns Hopkins University, while
his were a convenient stroll.

Most days were pure bliss, savoring a dream that once seemed impossible. Between textbooks
and exams, we devoured movies, music, and the simple joy of being together. Thrifty Bhanu never
bought a new shirt in Baltimore. By the end of five and a half years, his shirts were threadbare.
But for me, he splurged on a treasure trove of classical music records. From the Baroque to the

Romantic period - our record collection became a symphony of our shared love for music.
Bhanu, the ultimate husband-on-demand, went above and beyond. He was my typist in the age of
refrigerator-sized computers, my Economics 101 tutor, my grocery shopper, my laundry assistant,
and my resident handyman. This delightful pattern would define our married life.

136 A Life Well-Lived Is a Beautiful Memory