The man who made us believe: A tribute to Tan Sri Datuk Dr M. Thambirajah

WITH the passing of Tan Sri Datuk Dr M. Thambirajah on June 23, 2025, aged 83, Malaysia lost more than a towering educator and community leader – we lost a quiet giant, a man whose life’s work transformed the trajectory of thousands, particularly within the Malaysian Indian community.

To many, he was best known as the founder of Sri Murugan Centre (SMC), a sanctuary for academic discipline, cultural grounding, and purposeful ambition. Yet his influence extended far beyond the walls of that institution.

In 1977, he authored Malaya Dalam Sejarah Volumes I, II and III – history textbooks still remembered by Malaysians now in their late 40s and 50s. But his legacy lives not only in books or buildings, but in the minds and hearts of those he shaped.

I first heard of him when I was 14. I had just been sent to SMC, a place that initially felt unfamiliar to someone like me, coming from a mixed environment. At the PJ Vivekananda Centre, surrounded by Indian students, one word echoed through the halls: “Prof, Prof, Prof.” I didn’t know who he was, but I quickly understood that his name carried weight – reverence, even.

Later that year, I attended a seminar at the Universiti Malaya. Why there? Prof’s reasoning was simple yet profound: “Plant the seed early.” He believed young people needed to walk those grounds, to feel that environment, so that one day they might return not as visitors, but as students.

In the 1990s, Indian enrolment in Malaysian public universities stood at just 4% to 5% despite the community comprising nearly 8% of the population. That disparity was not just a statistic to him; it was a call to action.

And that university seminar changed the course of my life.

He stood before us and said, in his deep, commanding bass voice: “You can change your life whenever you want. You don’t need anyone’s permission. Just decide and do it.” At 14, those words were electric. He made me believe I could change my future, on my own terms.

When I was 15, Tun Abdullah Ahmad Badawi, deputy prime minister then, visited the SMC. Many were excited to see him. But I was more interested in the group of Indian professionals who had come along, the ones Prof always spoke of. I needed to believe they were real. Because where I grew up, in a modest flat in Shah Alam, I hadn’t seen many who looked like me and had made it.

Between the ages of 18 and 23, I became a volunteer at SMC. Those were transformative years. I saw how Prof built not just an organisation, but a movement. His core team comprised vibrant, sharp young university students. What united them was his belief in them. He didn’t seek blind followers, he nurtured thinkers, doers, leaders.

He held us to higher standards because he believed SMC should be a place where Indian children experienced dignity, a place where they were not judged, a place where they could stand tall.

He often reminded us: “The way you carry yourself is how you respect the organiser, the event, and yourself.” And, “Speak to everyone as your equal, because we are.”

He was never stingy with knowledge, whether from books, experience, or life itself. He shared it freely, without prejudice or ego. To him, everyone had a role to play, and in his eyes, the person who moved a vase of flowers was no less important than someone who had served beside him for years. Contribution was measured not by status, but by sincerity.

One December evening, in my early days, I was out buying kutthu vilakku (standing oil lamps) for a gathering of Form One students at UM. My phone rang. An unfamiliar number.

“Thank you so much, Vicky. Thank you for finding the kutthu vilakku. That is our heritage, and this Sunday, you will be reviving our culture for all those students. Thank you.”

Confused, I asked, “Who’s this?”

“Thambirajah here.”

I was stunned. The man himself, calling me? No formalities, no grand introductions. Just: “Thambirajah here.”

I fumbled with words, apologised for not having his number in my phone. Yet he spoke to me like an equal –calmly, kindly, with warmth. That call deepened my respect for him. It wasn’t just the weight he carried; it was the humility with which he carried it.

“Now you have it. Save it. Call me whenever you need anything.”

That was who he was. He didn’t need long explanations. He understood. He saw your effort, your intent, and responded with trust.

Once, while recovering from surgery, fresh out of the operating theatre, he still found the strength to call us to his home. His voice was slower, softer, yet the message remained the same: “How are the children? Are they motivated? Are we doing the right thing for them?”

This was not just dedication. It was the very essence of selfless service. A man who gave everything, even when he had little left to give. Who saw community not as a concept, but as a living responsibility. Who believed no child should ever feel invisible, forgotten, or less than.

Over the years, we had many such conversations. I was one of many lives he guided, shaped, and eventually released not to drift, but to discover my own path.

I may have wandered far from home physically, but in spirit, I never strayed. Even today, when faced with difficult decisions, I still pause and ask: What would Prof say?

We yearned, and still do for his quiet approval. His ideology, his teachings, his values, they have become our compass. And perhaps that was his greatest gift to us: not just preparing us to succeed but shaping how we chose to succeed.

Today, I mourn.

Not just for a mentor or teacher, but for someone who altered the way I saw myself, and the way I saw the community around me.

But alongside the grief, there is also deep and enduring gratitude. 

For the time I had with him. For the values he planted in me. For the fire he lit in all of us. And yes, regret, for not having spent more time, or done more to repay him.

Prof, thank you. Thank you for believing in us before we knew how to believe in ourselves.

Thank you for reminding us of our roots, even as you pushed us towards the sky. Thank you for giving us not just education, but dignity, clarity, and a purpose for life.

Rest in power.

Your mission lives on in every one of us.

VIKNESVARAN GOPPAL

Kuala Lumpur