While I looked at my mobile in the early morning yesterday, I saw a message sent at night of the 19th Feb 2026, by one of my former students at NEHU.  The message read—Dr. Ricky A J Syngkon passed away sometime ago due to cardiac arrest.  Sorry to be the bearer of such sad news.

I did not believe this; there was no reason to believe it. I thought it was fake. Yet, I searched the web and found this shocking news to be true. I was devastated.  What makes this so difficult to process is that Ricky was a healthy, active man. He didn’t fade away; he collapsed while playing futsal. To be taken in the middle of a match, full of energy and spirit, feels like a cruel interruption to a life that still had so much to give.

When I shared this with my wife, she was appalled. We both were just looking at each other as if time had suddenly frozen, leaving us suspended in a reality we weren’t ready to accept.  The silence in the room was heavy; the kind of silence that only comes when you lose someone with whom you enjoyed a special bond of friendship for more than over two decades.

Our journey together began in 2002 at North-Eastern Hill University (NEHU). He joined as a lecturer and I as a reader in the Department of Commerce (School of Economics, Management & Information Sciences).  We shared a wall between our office rooms and our academic worlds intersected constantly—I worked on behavior and strategy while he focused on entrepreneurship.

Ricky was a man of a lower pitch.  While I was often the loud one in the room, he was soft-spoken and deliberate. You could pass his classroom and barely feel his presence from the outside, yet inside, he was a giant to his students. He was a disciplinarian, but one rooted in deep compassion and a strong belief in the goodness of humanity.

My family and I will never forget his kindness. Years ago, when my daughter was sick and admitted to NEIGRIHMS in Shillong, Ricky didn’t just pay a formal visit. He stood by her bed and prayed deeply for her recovery. That gesture of faith and empathy stayed with us forever; my daughter was heartbroken to hear of his loss, remembering the man who cared enough to pray for her when she was at her weakest.

There were several occasions when he showed up and simply took over the burdens I was carrying, without being asked and without any fanfare. Whether it was a departmental crisis at NEHU while I was heading the department or a personal challenge I was facing, he had a way of appearing exactly when his quiet strength was needed most, proving time and again that he was the one person I could always bank on.  In the admission committee at the department (NEHU), I witnessed his soft corner for people coming from poor and rural background.

In 2015, when I was leaving NEHU to join University of Delhi, Ricky spoke at my farewell. His words that day were a masterclass in affection. He spoke with a sense of compassion and empathy that moved everyone in the room. His words weren’t just a goodbye; they were a testament to his belief in the goodness of humanity and the strength of our 13-year bond.  I didn’t quite realise that he had such respect for my working style and appreciation for my contribution for strengthening the image of the department.  For me he was just Ricky and for him I was Dr Vijay.  Perhaps he was the only one in my known circle who would call me Dr Vijay.

We kept in constant touch and discussed issues freely, with or without agreement.  Whenever I needed any help from Shillong he was always there to help whether in the university or with the local administration.  When I joined NEHU we used to stay at Nongshilliang and he was closeby and we could easily bank on him for any kind of support.

While in Shillong, I remember the long discussions we had about power and politics. Back then, he had no interest in either. He used to say that politics was not meant for him. We would tease him, suggesting he should either become a full-time priest or join politics, given his integrity.  He would smile and leave it at that.

But as the years passed, his reluctance turned into a sense of duty. During the COVID-19 period, our conversations revealed his deep concern for the human condition. He believed that for life to improve, one didn’t need a position of power—but he eventually realized that clean politics required people like him to step forward.

I watched from Delhi as he helped found the Voice of the People Party (VPP) in 2021, serving as its General Secretary.  I have fond memories of his frustration for administrative hassles in getting the party registered. While it was in the process, once he visited our home along with one of the founding members of the party.  His conviction was inspiring as he made his intent clear.

He traveled across Meghalaya, not to campaign, but to listen. Even after losing the assembly elections in 2023, he never gave up. When he told me he was contesting for the Lok Sabha in 2024, I was happy but skeptical. Yet, his victory—defeating a three-term Congress MP, Vincent Pala, by over 3.5 lakh votes—proved he was the true representative of the people.

He had lot of plans for the development of the state of Meghalaya and its people, especially for education, industries (MSMEs), and rural development. He held deep appreciation for the Cabinet Ministers who supported infrastructure development in Meghalaya. He cared more about the progress of the state than political point-scoring. For him, politics was service in the true sense.

Fame never touched his humility. Ricky was fond of sweets and if he liked something he would ask for a second serve. This showed how simple he was and how little he cared for the stiff formalities that often distance people in power from those they love. In that small, honest request for more, you did not see a professor or a Member of Parliament; you saw a man who found joy in the simple things and felt comfortable enough among friends to be in his authentic self. He used to ignore protocol at times. He once told me he preferred riding his motorbike to official programs because he didn’t want to cause traffic or inconvenience to others with a car.

He never forgot his friends.  Few months back, when he was in Delhi, he insisted on coming to my office. Having tea together and recalling our good old days at NEHU, I saw the same man I had known for 24 years—the man who would pray before every meal and every event, grounded in his faith.

Ricky lived his life at a gentle pitch, but his impact was a thunderclap. He proved that you can be a politician and still be a priest at heart; that you can lead a state and represent people and still ride a bike; and that you can be a Giant-Killer (as he was fondly remembered by his voters) while remaining the kindest person in the room.

Rest in peace, Ricky, my dear friend. I will miss the tea, the prayers, and the quiet wisdom.  You were Godsend. It is my loss but His gain.