Remembering Prof (Dr.) Mahendra Pal Singh

It is with deep sorrow that I share that Prof. M. P. Singh, passed away on 07.03.2026, after serving the country and the world of academia for more than five decades. On 8 March 2026, he was laid to rest in his native village, Jitholi, a place he often spoke of with quiet affection. It comforts me that he took his last breath among the fields and the soil he always longed to return to.

So much has already been written by his students and associates about how kind he was, how generous he was, and how he was truly a teacher of teachers. Thousands of people whose lives he touched have shared their memories, and they are all true. Amid all these memories being shared, I find myself drawn not to the public figure everyone admired, but to the quiet, personal bond I was fortunate to share with him.

It is difficult to describe what he meant to me. As a young student, still unsure of where I belonged in the world, it was Sir who first ignited my interest in academia. In late 2021, when I was pursuing my LL.M. from Indian Law Institute, he took a chance on me and asked me to work on the revision of V. N. Shukla's Constitution of India for its 14th Edition. That single act of trust changed the course of my life. He got me my first job. He opened a door I did not even know existed. Over time, he became much more than a mentor to me, he was a guide, a friend, and in many ways, a father figure. I was fortunate to be associated with him in the later years of his life and to see him closely, not as the towering academic everyone admired, but as the gentle, curious, deeply humane person he truly was.

Prof. Singh loved Hindi literature deeply. He would often speak of different cultures and traditions, and about how it pained him that the richness of Hindi literature was slowly fading away. Our conversations would drift effortlessly from constitutional law to literature to history, sometimes ending with stories from his own life. He once told me about the time he saw Jawaharlal Nehru and almost managed to touch him, narrating the story with the excitement of a young boy. I remember smiling at how alive those memories still were for him. Despite his age, his intellectual energy never faded. When his right hand stopped cooperating with him because of old age, he simply began writing with his left. His knowledge of German was impeccable. What amazed me most was that he never stopped working. Even when he did not need to, even when no one expected it of him, he kept working. Sometimes, late at night, I would receive an email from him about a manuscript he had misplaced and was desperately trying to locate. His mind was always searching, always working, always curious.

His library was one of the most beautiful places I have ever known. Every time I visited, he would hand me a book, and the next time I returned, he would ask me about it. The truth is, I wasn't much of a reader before I met him. But with him, I began to read. At that time, I was involved in student activism, restless, impatient, always rushing somewhere. He somehow gave my life substance and direction. He had a way of gently guiding you without ever making you feel guided. He was also a deeply happy person. Every now and then he would narrate funny incidents from his life, laughing softly at his own stories. He shared with me stories from his days at Columbia Law School, to his years at the Faculty of Law, Delhi. He would reminisce about his time in Germany. And sometimes, his stories would drift further back to Meerut, where he practiced briefly. One story he shared with me has always stayed with me. During the tense days of the Mandal Commission protests, when there were calls for a boycott of classes from teachers' associations as well as various student bodies and outfits, many advised him not to support the recommendations. But he not only stood by them, he also went to the CLC to take his class. That day, only one student had turned up, yet he taught the class anyway. That was the kind of man he was, firm in his convictions, quietly courageous, and deeply rooted in compassion and fairness.

I will miss seeing him sitting in his study, sometimes pausing from his writing to play with his dog, Simba. Even in his final moments, I am told there was a gentle smile on his face. He treated me as one of his own. I do not know whether he was this generous with everyone, perhaps he was, but he always made me feel like his own. Prof Singh touched thousands of lives and changed them in ways he may not even remember. I was one of them. His last message to me was simple: “Hope to see you again. MPs.” I did not know then that these would be the last words I would ever receive from him. Not long ago, I had spoken to him, he had picked up the phone as he always did, beginning the call with that soft, familiar laugh that never failed to make me smile. There are no words for the quiet space your passing has left in my life, only gratitude that, for a time, I had the honour of knowing you and learning from you. His presence will be missed in ways words cannot quite hold, but the grace of his mind and the kindness of his heart will endure quietly in the lives he guided. Those who were fortunate to learn from him will carry forward not only his ideas, but also the gentleness and integrity with which he lived them. In that way, his influence will continue to illuminate paths long after his voice has fallen silent.

“What we once enjoyed and deeply loved we can never lose, for all that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” — Helen Keller

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