For those who grew up with The Stone Roses as the soundtrack to their youth, Mani wasn’t just a musician; he was a companion in the background of every formative memory. His bass lines didn’t simply underpin songs — they gave them swagger, soul and a pulse that seemed to lock in with the listener’s own heartbeat. Friends, neighbours and fellow musicians now remember a man whose quiet kindness contrasted sharply with the thunder he summoned onstage, a figure whose humour and warmth made even fleeting encounters unforgettable.
Now, as the shock begins to settle into a softer, more enduring kind of grief, his story feels bound by a bittersweet symmetry. The loss of his beloved Imelda two years ago had already dimmed the lights around him; the idea of them reunited offers a fragile comfort to those left behind. The conversation tour that would have traced his four decades in music will never take place, but the true conversation — the one carried in record grooves, in bootleg tapes, in festival recollections and in the lives of his twin sons — is only getting louder. In every replayed bassline, in every crowd that still sings along, Mani remains: steady, soulful, and impossible to mute.