Shri. N.R Doraiswami, known to most people as Auditor NRD, was my grandfather. To me, he was Thatha.

March 2026 marked his 100th birthday, and I have been thinking a lot about the kind of man he was and the effect he had on my life. He was a huge influence on my childhood, and a lot of what I value even now comes directly from him.

By profession he was a Chartered Accountant, but that never came close to describing him fully. He was interested in everything.

He had a mind that could move easily from finance to mechanical engineering to construction to practical problem-solving. He was deeply analytical, but never narrow. One of his favorite sayings was, “Katrathu kai alavu, kallathathu ulagalavu” – what we know is only a handful, and what we do not know is as vast as the world. That was exactly how he lived. No matter how much he knew, he never acted like he was done learning.

He came from an agricultural background and never lost that part of himself. He remembered where he came from. He spoke fondly of his sister, who used natural remedies and plants around the house to cure all kinds of things. He respected practical knowledge, older wisdom, and the idea that there is always more to understand.

He was an imposing man in many ways, but he was also warm, friendly, and very human. People respected him, but not just because of his accomplishments. They respected the way he treated people. He could connect with anyone, from CEOs to janitors, because he treated people like people. He valued loyalty and affection. His words meant something. He could be short-tempered, but he was also generous, protective of his family, and known for helping people who were less fortunate. He believed in empowering women, and he played a big role in helping my mother get her career established. She has his resolve and his dedication to work. He used to tell her that age has no limits, and he valued her judgment. I witnessed her transformation in real time thanks in part to his support and encouragement. My father also adored and respected him deeply, and that left a big impression on me. In many ways, when I think about my own relationship with my dad, I can see an echo of what he must have felt toward his father. I feel blessed to have had his influence also impact me through my parents as well.

He cared about how he carried himself. He liked clean, pressed clothes and loved wearing a suit and tie to formal occasions. Even now, when I wear a suit, I think of him and wonder whether I could ever carry myself the way he did.

He was also a Freemason, and service mattered to him. One of the causes closest to his heart was the Masonic Medical Centre for Children in Coimbatore, India. He believed strongly in bringing people together to do meaningful things, especially when it came to children and the future. He believed that no one should try to do everything alone, and that a community standing together is always stronger. I was born in 1982, the same year the hospital was founded. I was not born there, and I do not want to overstate that connection, but I have often wondered whether, in some small way, my arrival in his life may have deepened his desire to help build something for children.

Some of my earliest memories with him are simple ones, but they have stayed with me all my life. We lived in a multigenerational household until I was five, and those years were special. I watched a lot of Tamil movies with him. We both loved Rajinikanth. He used to take me to first-day shows, and from Thalapathy to Muthu we watched many movies together at his friend Balu’s movie theatre. He would get genuinely excited. Looking back now, I think he loved underdog stories because he understood struggle and what it takes to overcome it.

He gave me a full run of the house when I was a child. That freedom meant a lot to me. His office was his sanctuary, but he let me into it anyway. It was full of books, work files, stationery, and the tools of a serious mind. What fascinated me most, though, was his gun cabinet. The .22 LR target rifle and the .22 air rifle felt almost sacred in that room. I am pretty sure that was where my love for firearms began.

He did not just leave me with fascination. He taught me how to shoot. I was about seven years old when he took me up to the terrace, put cans against a solid brick wall, and started with safety. He taught me breathing, sight picture, and how to take a solid rest. He was absolutely serious about it. He taught me that firearms are tools, not things to be toyed with. What I remember most is not just the lesson itself, but how he taught it: kindly, patiently, and with total seriousness about responsibility.

That respect for tools went beyond firearms. He believed in paying for quality. That is something I know I inherited from him too. Sometimes I wonder what he would say if I showed him my shed. I am almost certain he would tell me to keep everything well oiled and to respect good tools.

He taught me resilience in other ways too. He encouraged me to practice handwriting. That meant more because just before college he had lost multiple fingers on his right hand in a tragic accident and had to relearn how to write with his left hand. He took pride in overcoming obstacles. He used to tell me that obstacles are there for you to demonstrate how badly you want something. When he spoke about his struggles, he never did it in a self-pitying way. He spoke about them as proof that with enough effort and time, almost anything is possible.

He had a sense of adventure, and I am sure I got my love of road trips from him. He loved long family drives and especially loved going to Ooty. He took me there several times. I remember the Gymkhana Club. I remember the lake. I remember the feeling of being with him on those trips.

We also shared a love for dogs. He always had dogs around him: Dobermans, German Shepherds, even a Great Dane. For a man who could seem tough, he had a very soft heart when it came to the things he loved. One of the first times I ever saw him tear up was when our 13-year-old Doberman, Kimbo, died. I stood next to him holding his hands as we buried Kimbo under a coconut tree in the backyard. We still have that tree.

What I miss most now are his hugs. They felt protective and comforting. Many times I would fall asleep while we were watching movies, and he would set up one side of his bed for me. He would carefully put up mosquito netting so I would not get bitten. This was before window screens were common in India. It was such a small thing, but it tells me everything about how he cared for people. He showed love through attention, effort, and presence.

I feel very lucky that Pavithra and I got to meet him when we were newly married. She had heard so much about him before she met him, and she is still happy that she had that chance. She is determined in the same way he was, and she is kind and generous in ways that remind me of him too. She also shares his love for dogs, his dedication to a job well done, and his belief in living a full and meaningful life. They shared a love for hosting people and making others feel welcome, and I know she would have appreciated the side of him that believed in empowering women and helping them build their own path.

When I think of him now, I think of a man who taught me many things without always sitting down and saying them out loud. He taught me discipline. He taught me responsibility. He taught me to respect tools, to take pride in doing things properly, to stay curious, and to keep going when life gets hard. He showed me that toughness and tenderness can exist in the same person.

He also believed that a life should leave something behind for others. His work, including his connection to the Masonic Medical Centre for Children, reflected that belief. He cared about the next generation. He cared about the community. He believed people could do far more together than they could alone.

On his 100th birthday, I remember him with love, gratitude, and pride. I think of him when I watch a Rajinikanth film, when I take a road trip, when I put on a suit, when I pick up a good tool, and when I think about what it means to live with strength and kindness at the same time. I miss him. I miss his hugs. But I still feel him in the way I live, in the things I care about, and in the people closest to me.
By profession he was a Chartered Accountant, but that never came close