On our way back from Calicut after the last rites following the passing of my uncle, my wife and cousin sit in the back of the car, trading stories of one who had meant so much to so many. I sit in front, trawling through Twitter.
A video features a smiling Thangarasu Natarajan under a pink umbrella atop an improvised chariot. He is the focus of a celebratory procession of the denizens of Chinnappampatti, a flyspeck village tucked in a corner of Salem, Tamil Nadu, where his father, a weaver, and his mother, who runs a food stall, scrimped and sacrificed so that their son could pursue his passion.
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