May 12, 2026

Jesus, what a wonder You are
You are so gentle, so pure and so kind
You shine like the morning star
Jesus, what a wonder You are.

My association with Father Ravi Santosh Kamath, SJ - or simply “Father Santosh,” as we respectfully called him goes back to the year 2002. I had gone to pick him up from Fatima Retreat House as he was the main celebrant for my sister’s nuptial Mass. I was around nineteen or twenty then, anxious that we might get delayed because I was waiting outside his office for him to come out.

He came out exactly on time.

It was the first time I was seeing him. A nimble-footed priest who greeted me warmly, settled into the car, and immediately put me at ease. As we started the journey, he casually mentioned that he would like to stop briefly at Father Muller’s Hospital. 

My anxiety returned. In my young mind, all I could think about was whether we would now be late. As we approached the hospital junction, he asked us to stop near a supermarket. He stepped out, disappeared inside for a few minutes, and returned carrying a packet containing a pair of slippers. We then proceeded to the hospital. With the same energy and swiftness that would become so characteristic of him in my memory, he quickly walked up to the second floor and returned within minutes.

Curious, I asked him whom the slippers were for.

He calmly explained that during an earlier hospital visit, he had noticed another patient, someone he did not know, who did not even have a proper pair of slippers. He had remembered that person and felt he should buy one for him. And then he changed the topic immediately.

That was all. No grand explanation. No expectation of recognition.

At that age, I could not fully understand why someone would do something so thoughtful for a complete stranger. But over the years, as my association with Father Santosh grew, I slowly began to understand. That was simply how he lived. Helping others was not an occasional act for him. It was his natural state of being.

In the years that followed, I had the privilege of helping him with small things - sending emails, clearing the memory of his computer because the system would not start, taking printouts, or troubleshooting computer connections that occasionally frustrated him. Whenever he needed help, he would call me gently and say, “I would need your help.”

Never demanding. Never insisting that I come immediately.

I could visit whenever I was free - later that day or even the next. There was always patience in him. Always consideration for the other person.

Looking back today, I realise those seemingly ordinary interactions taught me far more than I understood at the time. Through quiet gestures, unseen acts of kindness, and genuine concern for strangers, Father Santosh showed what it truly means to live a life centred on service.

Whenever I would go to meet him or assist him with any of his requirements, there would almost always be someone waiting for him outside his office. Sometimes it would be a young couple preparing for marriage, sometimes a student or an elderly person sitting quietly, burdened with worries visible on their face.

Many of them would sit there silently, avoiding eye contact, visibly disturbed or anxious.

But then they would enter Father Santosh’s cabin, and within five or ten minutes, they would emerge transformed. The same people who moments earlier appeared weighed down by life would now walk out smiling, greeting even strangers around them including me, whom they had not even registered earlier because of the state of mind they were in before meeting him. Watching that transformation was extraordinary.

The first few times, I was genuinely amused and curious about how this happened so consistently. Later, I simply accepted that this was who Father Santosh was. He had a rare gift - the ability to lighten hearts without making it appear like an effort.

I still remember occasions when he would ask me to come by around four in the evening. I would reach his office and find him absent. A little later, I would see him briskly walking back in from outside. With his characteristic humour, he would explain, “I had to go for a funeral. A funeral is never announced earlier, right?”

And then, almost in the same breath, he would continue, “Now at five o’clock, I have a nuptial Mass.” As a young man, I would wonder how one person could move between such contrasting moments of life with such grace - comforting grieving families at a funeral, then preparing to celebrate the joy of a wedding barely an hour later. Yet he did it effortlessly.

Even in between, there would often be one or two people waiting to meet him. No matter how busy he was, he ensured he met them personally, spoke to them warmly, amused them, and made them feel relaxed, all while remaining perfectly on time for the next commitment.

His punctuality was legendary, as was his remarkable ability to remember names and even the smallest details about people and their families.

Another thing I witnessed repeatedly was his complete detachment from material things. At times, someone in difficulty would come to meet him, not necessarily asking for financial help, but simply sharing their struggles. Father Santosh would quietly pick up one of the envelopes he had received earlier, perhaps after a nuptial Mass as a thanksgiving offering from a family, and hand it over immediately. Without even opening it. Without checking how much money was inside. Without hesitation.

What came to him naturally flowed toward someone else in need. That was his way.

On Sundays too, he maintained a discipline of compassion that deeply moved me. He would ensure that he visited elderly and ailing people in their homes, carrying the Holy Eucharist to them personally. Most of them lived alone, waiting not only for communion, but also for companionship and conversation. Whenever possible, I would drive him around him for these visits. I am sure there were many like me who assisted him like this.

Looking back now, I realise those journeys were never merely about rituals or religious obligations. They were acts of presence. He brought dignity, comfort, and human connection to people who otherwise may have spent entire days in silence and loneliness.

At his funeral, one of the priests mentioned something that stayed with me deeply. He said that some people had a grouse that Father Santosh seemed to spend more time speaking to the rich and influential. But those of us who knew him closely also knew another reality. The vast majority of people who came seeking his support, and guidance, especially during the silent hours, were often the poor and the lonely. The difference was that he never made those acts visible.

He helped quietly. Just as Christ taught - charity was never something to be announced, displayed, or spoken about for recognition.

Perhaps that is why many never fully saw the countless lives he touched behind the scenes. What people saw publicly was only a small part of who he truly was. The rest was known only to the people he comforted, encouraged, helped, and uplifted when nobody else was watching.

Father Santosh never made service look extraordinary. He made it look natural. And perhaps that is what made his life extraordinary. He was, in every sense, a People’s Priest.

Not because of titles or positions, but because of the extraordinary humanity with which he treated every person he encountered, especially those whom the world often overlooks.

Some lives preach loudly.
Others preach silently through the way they walk, speak, help and care.

Father Ravi Santosh Kamath, SJ belonged to the latter.

And perhaps that is why his memory will remain alive in the hearts of so many whose lives he touched quietly, gently and selflessly.

He would often say:

“I will pass through this world only once.
Let me do all the good I can while I am here, for I will not pass through it anymore.”

Perhaps that is also his final call to action for all of us in our own personal journey through life. Adios, Father Santosh. Until we meet again.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.
And let perpetual light shine upon him.

May his soul rest in peace. Amen.