Tribute to Sukumar Ramanathan, By famed travel writer Pico Iyer
I met Sukumar Ramanathan just four times in my life, yet he instantly became a hero to me, as writer, fellow traveler, seeker of the good--as well as the rare soul who found himself again and again in the secret home we shared in Big Sur, California.
I never forget the first time we said hello, almost three decades ago. Though already clearly a master of finance and technology, Suku drove 300 miles to interview me about books and travel for the magazine India Currents. We sat down in the plush armchairs of a hotel by the sea, and, very soon, I realized that it should be I who was asking him questions, about exploration and reading and how to stitch many cultures together. “Silicon Valley” had not much entered the global lexicon in 1996, and I was startled that anyone in command of so much knowledge would seek out a fledgling travel writer to talk about literature and the world.
It must have been karma that the two of us walked right into one another, not many years later, at the New Camadoli Benedictine hermitage high above the sea in Central California. Thrilled—as if we had found ourselves—we walked all the way down the monastery road, two miles, to the quiet highway, one moonlit evening, and then all the way up again. I didn’t think I’d met anyone who had such a sense of purpose and so many clearly defined projects, across so many fronts, as Suku. I certainly had never encountered anyone of such energy and talent that he was already talking about walking away from his job and working with Medecins sans Frontieres in East Timor, while heading towards places I had hardly heard of.
Long years passed when we never got to see each other in person, but he always felt very close. Every December he sent me a New Year’s card, and I watched in wonder as his three kids grew in the photos and quickly came to seem as accomplished as their dad and their superstar mother, Latha. It became my delight to find the features of their parents in each of the bright and shining faces, and—such was the magic of our connection—soon I would learn that Suku was a good friend of my old pal, Eric, with whom I’d once shared a broken guest-house in Kyoto. In time, Suku was introducing me to another miracle-worker who appeared to transcend every border, Gopi Kallayil.
The last time I saw Suku was on July 10, 2025. We’d been plotting this overdue reunion for months, and when we met—along the beach in Santa Barbara once again, within sight of our first meeting---it was as old friends. Over sushi on a terrace overlooking the ocean, we talked about editors and journeys and the arc of our crisscrossing lives. Suku began flashing his brilliant smile and talking of Australia, all the avenues he had yet to explore, his flourishing father back in India, soon to be 93.
He came to most vivid and delighted life, though, whenever he spoke about his family. He recited with pride the accomplishments of Latha—the 300 papers she had published, her ground-breaking work at Stanford—and couldn’t stop talking about his children and his love for them. My wife and I heard about how much he’d miss his son once he left home, the daughter who devoured huge books by Robert Caro and J.M. Roberts, about the eldest daughter who was already a star in so many fields.
We learned about trips to Gaza and Ukraine, to Tel Aviv, about how the eldest, at 24, would travel with her little brother, at 16, the rare pair of siblings to delight in one another’s company. We heard, about how Suku had spent most of the four-hour drive south talking to his second daughter on the phone.
I couldn’t remember ever encountering such a high-achieving and busy soul who had so much time for his loved ones and who seemed to want to talk of little else. When my wife, Hiroko, asked which of his parents he resembled, and which of his kids resembled him—and Latha--Suku flashed a dazzling smile again and looked like the happiest man on earth.
I still can’t believe that I won’t get the next conversation we had planned; as soon as I reached home from the dinner he generously gave us, I wrote to him with the hope that we would enjoy an even longer talk back in the Hermitage and then a dinner offered by us in Japan. We were alight with all the thoughts of what he might yet do. When I heard the news that none of this would be possible, I was more devastated than I can remember. But I know that Suku is at some level still nearby, and always will be, lighting me up with his infectious smile and sharing with me more worlds than I can count.
(contributed by gopi)
July 20, 2025
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