Dr. Sarath CR Sanku

He understood that the path of「道」or, the Michi (road) is not a destination but a rhythm. In the cadence of training, he revealed the essence of 「間」or, Ma (the space in between) strikes, the pause before response, the silence that holds meaning. In that interval, we learned to listen—not just to our opponents, but to ourselves.「間」was not emptiness; it was an invitation. His teaching embraced 「わびさび」or, wabi-sabi (subdued refinement) which is the beauty of imperfection, the grace of aging, the dignity of the incomplete. A worn-out「空手着」or, Karate-Gi, (karate-uniform), a crooked stance corrected with patience, a student’s faltering spirit lifted with a nod. He never demanded flawlessness; he asked only for sincerity. In his eyes, effort was always more sacred than outcome.

And he practiced「現地現物」or, Gemba Genbutsu (go and see.) He never taught from abstraction. Every correction came from observation, every insight from experience. He walked the floor, watched the form, felt the energy. His wisdom was not theoretical; it was earned, step by step, breath by breath.

But what set him apart was not just his mastery of technique but his embodiment of「改善」or Kaizen (improvement.) He believed in continuous improvement, not as a slogan, but as a way of life. Each day was an opportunity to refine, to deepen, to grow—not just in skill, but in character. He taught us that progress is not a leap, but a quiet accumulation of honest effort.

In moments of reflection, he would speak of「神」or, kami (spiritual deities) but not as distant deities, instead as the spirit that dwells in all living things. The spirit in the bow, in the breath, in the wooden floor that bore our weight. He reminded us that Karate is not just physical—it is spiritual. That every action, when done with reverence, becomes truly sacred.

And in his leadership, he practiced「ホウ・レン・ソウ」(Hou-Ren-Sou), the Japanese principle of communication:「報告」(report),「連絡」(inform),「相談」(consult). He fostered a culture of trust, where students felt safe to speak, to ask, to share. He did not command; he actually conversed. His dojo was not a hierarchy, but a living community.

To train under him was to enter a space where dharma met 「道」the road, the path, and, the way! Where duty was not imposed, but slowly discovered. Where the greatest opponent was not another fighter in the dojo, but the ego within the self. Ranjit taught all his students that Karate begins and ends with respect—not just for others, but for the path itself – the path leading towards discipline, respect, resilience, presence, balance, and, dharma.

I remember the way he bowed, not out of ritual, but out of recognition. Each bow was a gesture of gratitude: to the art, to the ancestors, to the moment. In his presence, I learned that strength is not domination, but controlled restraint. That mastery is not control, but absolute compassion for fellow beings.

He was not just a Sensei. He was a mirror. A compass. A quiet force that shaped lives without fanfare. His legacy is not in trophies or titles, but in the way his students walk, speak, and live. In the way we pause before action. In the way we strive without pride. In the way we bow with sincerity.

I remain grateful. For the lessons I learnt, for the silences unheard, for the spirited values he shared. His teaching lives on, not just in technique, but in the choices we all made, the values we upheld, and the breath we took before we even began. In every moment of「残心」or, Zanshin (the lingering awareness after the strike), I carry his presence. And in that awareness, I remember: the way is long, but the path is clear.