There are people who enter our lives and leave an indelible mark—not through grand gestures alone, but through the quiet consistency of their presence, the sparkle in their eyes, and the way they choose to see beauty in ordinary moments. Sukumar Ramanathan was one of those rare souls.
I keep thinking about that twinkle in his eye. It was always there, whether he was sharing a story, recommending a book, or simply listening to a friend work through life's challenges. That light spoke to something deeper—a man who had done the profound work of understanding himself and choosing, again and again, to engage with life fully.
When I was struggling in my sales career, feeling lost and uncertain about my path, Suku showed me something extraordinary: a 500-page autobiography he had written and then carefully studied, searching for the patterns and themes that defined his journey. Most people live their entire lives without such self-awareness. Suku didn't just live his life—he examined it, learned from it, and distilled it into a philosophy that guided his daily choices. Those handwritten pages, with their carefully crafted principles about truth, love, passion, and beauty, weren't just words on paper. They were a roadmap he actually followed.
"To strive for complete truth and honesty in the way I live my life," he wrote. And he did. There was an authenticity to Suku that made me want to be more honest with myself, more intentional about my choices.
When fear crept in as I prepared to move to Austin—that familiar anxiety about new adventures and unknown outcomes—Suku understood. He gifted me a small Austin tour guide, and inside, in his careful handwriting, three simple words: "Keep moving forward." It was so perfectly Suku—practical and philosophical at once, acknowledging the fear while pointing toward courage.
Every day he was home, Suku walked the Dish. This wasn't just exercise; it was ritual, meditation, a daily return to something that centered him. In his own words, he knew there were "still breezes to feel, woodpeckers to watch, the play of light to sink into, sunsets to marvel at." He understood that beauty persists, that there is always more to experience. "There is no finish line," he wrote, and I think he truly believed that—not just about walking, but about living.
His monthly Facebook favorites were something I looked forward to—eclectic collections that might include a kitchen gadget, a book that moved him, a documentary that made him think, or a TV show that made him laugh. These weren't casual recommendations but carefully curated shares from someone who paid attention to what enhanced life. We bonded over our love for Ryan Coogler's films, agreeing they deserved the full IMAX treatment, and we shared what can only be described as a delightfully snobbish belief that HBO shows were inherently superior simply by virtue of being HBO productions. There was something wonderful about sharing these specific enthusiasms with him—the way he could get genuinely excited about exceptional storytelling, whether we were debating the merits of prestige television or discovering a new filmmaker worth celebrating.
Suku was a writer in the truest sense, someone who used words not just to communicate but to make sense of the world. His autobiography wasn't an exercise in vanity but in understanding. His daily observations, his monthly recommendations, his handwritten philosophies—all of it came from someone committed to examining life closely and sharing what he discovered.
The tragedy of suicide is that it takes people who often understand life's beauty more acutely than the rest of us. Suku saw the breezes, watched the woodpeckers, marveled at sunsets. He loved deeply—his family, his friends, the simple pleasures that make existence worthwhile. He crafted a philosophy centered on truth, love, passion, and connection. And yet, the pain he carried became too much to bear.
I will miss our conversations about movies, his thoughtful recommendations, the way he could find something interesting in the most ordinary moments. I will miss that twinkle in his eye and the steadiness of his presence. Most of all, I will miss having a friend who had figured out so much about how to live well and who shared that wisdom generously.
Suku's words remind us that life has no finish line—that there are always more breezes to feel, more light to sink into, more beauty to discover. Even in grief, especially in grief, I want to remember that. For him, and for all of us still walking our own versions of the Dish, still trying to keep moving forward.
Rest in peace, my friend. Thank you for showing me what it looks like to live with intention, to pay attention, and to never stop looking for the beauty that surrounds us.
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