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REMEMBERING SAVITA!By Prema Vishwanathan
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REMEMBERING SAVITA!By Prema Vishwanathan

June 20- June 26, 2026, Tribute June 19, 2026 , by

A year has passed since Savita left us, and yet she remains startlingly present in the small things that she taught us to notice.
 SHE had a rare gift: the ability to find delight where others saw only the ordinary. An antique doorknob, an old wrought-iron lift creaking its way up a forgotten building, a beautifully designed staircase, the fizz of a cold drink on a hot afternoon — everything could become a source of wonder in her hands. She approached the world with the curiosity of a child and the discernment of a connoisseur.
Savita loved the old, but she was no prisoner of nostalgia. She could admire the craftsmanship of a century-old elevator and, with equal enthusiasm, marvel at a soaring skyscraper. She understood that beauty and delight belonged to no particular era.
What made her especially dear was her complete lack of pretension. She had an unerring instinct for puncturing pomposity and cutting through appearances. She gravitated towards what was genuine—in people, in places, in experiences—and quietly avoided those who mistook display for substance.
Those same qualities served her brilliantly in her professional life. As a journalist and editor, Savita possessed an almost uncanny eye for detail. A misplaced comma, a superfluous word, an awkward phrase, an inconsistency in a caption — nothing escaped her notice. She brought to editing the same attentiveness that she brought to everything else, believing that details mattered because they shaped the whole. Her remarkable archival memory and deep knowledge of art found their fullest expression during her long association with Marg, India’s oldest art magazine. There, her scholarship, precision and meticulousness enriched countless articles and publications, often behind the scenes and without seeking recognition for herself.
 Savita was also the most delightful of travel companions. Over the years, I was fortunate to travel with her through much of Southeast/East Asia and Europe — from Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi to Phnom Penh and Angkor Wat; from Singapore, Tokyo, Bangkok and Phuket to Helsinki, Stockholm, St Petersburg and Tallinn. Wherever we went, she was drawn less to the celebrated landmarks than to the hidden corners that revealed a city’s character. We would happily wander through narrow by-lanes, linger in small museums, explore forgotten neighbourhoods and seek out the details that most visitors passed by. Travelling with Savita taught me that every place has a secret life waiting to be discovered, and that the greatest adventures often lie just beyond the guidebook’s recommendations. Her curiosity transformed travel from sightseeing into a deeper act of noticing.
Kind and considerate almost to a fault, she carried her generosity lightly. She never made a performance of caring; she simply cared. She noticed when someone was left out, remembered what mattered to others, and found ways to make life gentler for those around her. Family meant everything to her, but her idea of family extended far beyond blood ties. She often said that close friends were family too, and she treated them as such — with the same loyalty, concern and unconditional affection. Many of us were fortunate enough to find ourselves welcomed into that circle of warmth and belonging.
Savita also possessed a tremendous sense of humour. She could have us in stitches recounting some long-forgotten family episode, an absurd travel mishap, or the quirks and idiosyncrasies of people she had encountered along the way. What made her humour so special was its generosity. There was never a trace of malice or ridicule in her observations; instead, she delighted in the wonderfully eccentric ways in which human beings navigate the world. Her stories were affectionate celebrations of individuality, told with impeccable timing, a twinkle in her eye, and an infectious laughter that inevitably drew everyone around her into the joke.
Today, on the first anniversary of her passing, I find myself remembering not only the friend we lost but also the way she moved through the world: attentive, amused, curious, and utterly herself. The world feels a little less enchanted without her in it.
 But perhaps the best way to honour Savita is to keep looking closely—to pause before an old lift, to admire an unexpected detail, to laugh at the absurd, and to greet the world with the same sense of wonder that she carried so effortlessly.
And when we do, she is not entirely gone

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