How can someone’s love continue through the way we treat one another?
Remembering Yagi at the celebration of his life.
First published in June 2026 following Yagi’s memorial celebration. Updated October 2026.
Yesterday, I attended one of the happiest memorials I’ve ever been to—a celebration of the life of my dear friend Yagi.
That might sound like a contradiction. We tend to think of memorials as sombre occasions, filled with sadness. Yet this gathering, a year after his death, was full of laughter, warmth and joy.
Around two hundred of us came together to celebrate his life. We played cricket, football and rounders. There were games for the children, delicious food, prayers, music and hugs. Everywhere I looked, people were enjoying being together.
Of course, we all wished Yagi could have been there with us. We missed him. But as I looked around, something struck me: one man’s life had brought together hundreds of people, even after he had gone.
That is quite extraordinary.
And as people spoke about his gentleness and kindness, I remembered a moment with him that has stayed with me.
When the years rolled away
Three years earlier, around Diwali, I had met Yagi at a Hindu temple. We had not seen each other for a few years, yet he immediately made me feel so welcome that the years rolled away. It was as though we had last met only the previous week.
This was before his illness diagnosis. Looking back, what I remember most is his gentleness and the ease of being in his company again. It felt so good to see him.
Perhaps you have a friend like that. You can go months or even years without meeting, but when you do, the warmth is still there. You find yourselves talking naturally, and wonder why you left it so long.
After I learnt about Yagi’s illness, we reconnected properly, and I visited him in hospital a few weeks before he passed away. Even then, he was so full of life, with that same warmth I remembered from our meeting at the temple. He wanted to hear what I was up to and what I hoped to do next in my life.
During one of our video calls, we also talked about what he would like to do once he had fully recovered. He still had such zest for life and so much he wanted to give. In particular, he wanted to do more seva—selfless service—for his community.
What touches me now is that, even with so much happening in his own life, Yagi was interested in mine. And when we talked about his future, he was thinking about how he could help others.
I am grateful that we had those conversations. We talked about what we both hoped to do next, and I had the chance to experience his warmth again. Now, remembering his hopes for more seva makes the loss feel especially poignant. There was still so much he wanted to offer.
At the memorial, so many people spoke about those same qualities in Yagi. I kept recognising the friend I remembered in the stories they shared. His kindness had meant something to each of us, in our own way.
His family, friends and colleagues at IBM have adopted a beautiful phrase: #BeMoreYagi.
I love that. It gives us a way to honour him in our everyday lives, wherever we happen to be.
And it brings me to a question I have been sitting with:
How can someone’s love continue through the way we treat one another?
“Those we love are never truly far.” A beautiful expression of samp at Yagi’s memorial celebration.
A word for what we were experiencing
During the celebration, one of the speakers talked about samp: harmony, with a sense of togetherness and unity.
As I listened, I thought about the people gathered around me. We were sharing food, playing games, remembering our friend and enjoying one another’s company. The word seemed to give a name to something we were already experiencing.
I had come to remember Yagi, and found myself thinking about the connections his life had created. My own memories sat alongside those of people who had known him in different parts of his life. Together, they helped me appreciate how widely his warmth had reached.
It also spoke to something I have been trying to express through the Connection Revolution.
I want to live in a world where we take more care of one another. Where we make time to listen, welcome people into our circles and remember that the person in front of us has a life as full and complicated as our own.
At Yagi’s celebration, that felt wonderfully real. A day of remembrance had become a day of connection, with room for both laughter and sadness.
I thought about his desire to do more seva. Although he could no longer be there, the people who loved him were gathering and enjoying a sense of community because of him. I found something deeply moving in that.
What we carry with us
When someone we love dies, we treasure what helps us feel close to them. We look at photographs, tell their stories and remember things they used to say. Sometimes a song, a place or an ordinary moment brings them suddenly to mind.
There is comfort in sharing those memories with someone who knew them. I felt that at Yagi’s celebration, hearing others speak about the gentleness I had experienced myself.
It made me appreciate that a welcome can stay with someone for years. Yagi may not have thought much about how he greeted me at the temple. For me, it remains a treasured memory of him.
I find myself wondering about the moments he gave to other people that day, and on countless other days. The warmth each person received belonged to their own relationship with him. At the memorial, we could hear a little of what those relationships had meant.
When I think of Yagi now, I want to bring more of that warmth into my own life. I want to be more attentive when someone is talking to me, and more generous in welcoming people I have not seen for a while.
I will not always get it right. But remembering how good it felt to be in his company gives me something to return to.
For me, that is where #BeMoreYagi becomes personal.
Making room for the people we love
That meeting at Diwali has also made me think about friendships I have allowed to drift. There are people I have been meaning to contact for far too long. I think of them fondly, intend to call, then get caught up in something else.
Sometimes I let the gap itself become a reason to hesitate. Will it be awkward? Should I explain why I have been quiet? Yagi’s welcome reminds me how quickly those years can fall away when we are glad to see each other.
I am grateful we reconnected, and that I visited him in hospital. Those conversations are part of what I have to remember now.
They also remind me how easily I assume there will be another opportunity to see someone. Another weekend to meet, another evening to call, another occasion to tell them what they mean to me.
I came away from the celebration wanting to make more room for the people I love. The happiness of being together that day stayed with me, alongside the sadness of the person we could no longer spend time with.
Being more Yagi
You may never have met Yagi, but perhaps this article has reminded you of someone whose kindness you still carry with you. Someone who made you feel welcome, took an interest in your life or helped you when you needed it.
I hope remembering them brings you some of the warmth that remembering Yagi brings me.
He taught me how much love we can express through a warm welcome, a genuine interest in someone’s life and a willingness to serve. I saw those qualities at the temple, in our conversations during his illness and in the stories people shared at his memorial.
I want to bring more of that into my own relationships. That is how I hope his love will continue through me.
This week, I will be thinking about who I could welcome, appreciate or make time for. Perhaps someone has already come to mind for you too.
In your own way, be more Yagi.