Killi keeps growing after all these years

Killi Maharaja 

When great personalities pass on, it is almost customary to say ‘there will never be anyone like him, ever.’ They are versions of the famous line uttered by Mark Antony in Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar’: Here was a Caesar, when comes such another?’ The lives great people live make them seem even more enormous at death, probably on account of the vacuum their passing creates. Grief allows for exaggeration. We convince ourselves and our words convince others. 

When Killi Rajamahendran(or Killi Maharaja as he was better known) left us suddenly five years ago, I wrote, ‘Killi will loom even larger in death than in life.’ Although it came straight from the heart, it may have been read as grief-inspired exaggeration. The passing of years reduces the stature of the departed to more sober, accurate and believable dimensions. But when, five years later, the words and sentiments can be repeated with as much conviction, it is not as easy to dismiss. Indeed, if anything, I understated it.

Time has an uncanny way of separating achievement from legacy. Success belongs to the present. Legacy belongs to history. It is only with the passing of time that we begin to appreciate not just what a person built, but how they made people feel and how deeply they touched the lives around them.

People remember him for building one of Sri Lanka’s most influential media organisations, for changing the country’s broadcasting landscape and for never being afraid to challenge the status quo. Those are accomplishments that history will record. But those of us who had the privilege of knowing him remember something else. A friend, simply put. 

Even Killi’s fiercest critics, and there were many, would struggle to disagree with one simple truth. If Killi called you a friend, there was almost nothing he would not do for you. When others walked away, Killi had an extraordinary habit of walking towards you. His loyalty knew no halfway mark.

When he decided to stand by someone, there were no limits. That was simply who he was.

He hated seeing people unhappy. He could not bear to see someone cry. Beneath the larger than life personality, beneath the bravado and the formidable businessman was a remarkably soft hearted human being. 

Killi had a temper. But it was like opening a bottle of soda. There would be a loud fizz for a few moments and then everything would settle down again as though nothing had happened. Most importantly, there was never even an iota of malice. 

And then there was one phrase that anyone who knew him well would instantly recognise.

“Just keep quiet, men.”

He never said it in anger. More often than not, it came with a smile or a mischievous grin. It was simply Killi’s way of saying, “I have heard enough,” or “Let’s move on.” It rarely ended the conversation. More often, it merely postponed the argument until the evening over a drink, or until one of his famous early morning text messages landed on your phone. 

Some of my happiest memories are the days I spent with him at his home in London and his apartment in Chennai. They were not grand occasions. We laughed, argued, disagreed, shared a drink and solved the world’s problems, only to disagree all over again the next day.

Killi loved life. He enjoyed good company, spirited conversations and friendships that could survive the fiercest disagreements. Like every genuine friendship, ours was not without its difficult moments. We argued. We occasionally irritated each other. There were times we strongly disagreed. Yet, when it truly mattered, he stood by me. That is something I will never forget.

He loved Sirasa, not merely as a business, but as family. He cared deeply about the people who worked there and took immense pride in what they achieved together. He loved his friends with remarkable generosity and above everything else, he loved his family.

Five years on, what I miss are not the big moments but the ordinary ones, the evening drinks, the early morning text messages, the arguments, the laughter and the occasional disagreement. Friendships are often remembered through those small rituals and ours was no different. They are memories I will always cherish.

Sri Lanka has produced many successful businessmen. It has produced very few personalities like Killi Maharaja. He was colourful, impulsive, fiercely loyal, endlessly generous, occasionally impossible, often infuriating and always unforgettable.

Looking back today, I realise that the greatest tribute one can pay him is not to remember the businessman he was but the friend he chose to be.

Five years ago, I wrote that he would loom even larger in death than in life. Today, that is no longer simply an expression of grief. It is a statement of fact.