Of golden fireflies and a silver gown....

The old man sitting on the mahogany rocking chair, breathing in deeply the musky air of the humid Kolkata evening, bore no resemblance to the Bapu Uncle I remembered. Yes, Bapu Uncle, who was the ultimate hero of my colourful childhood world, who killed unseen demons with his magical powers, now sits quiet and helpless in this concrete jungle of towering apartments. He is least bothered about his doting son and daughter-in-law, a rarest of the rare commodity in today’s mechanical and fiercely practical world. Rana Da, Uncle’s son, tells me that Uncle has Alzheimer’s disease, which accounts for his not remembering me. I will be lying if I say that I do not mind; Bapu Uncle, and not remembering me? This took a moment to sink in, and when it did, the vague pain somewhere on the left side of my chest became bearable.

Now, you must be wondering who this old Bapu Uncle really is? Well, you can assume that he was the only other interest in my life when my monomaniac mind was looking for answers to all the questions bubbling in my curious mind of childhood in books! Yes, though he was a good decade and a quarter older than my father, I never knew a person as enthusiastic and as lively as Bapu Uncle. He lived with his petite wife and three sons, all of whom were extremely intelligent and polite, in the rambling bunglow near my grandparents’ home. My biannual visits to my grandparents’ were made memorable by Bapu Uncle. He had the most accurate answer to every question and had the most interesting stories to tell. The fish in the pond in his backyard had a glorious past, the squirrels on the tall betel nut trees in his front yard had an aristocratic lineage, the crows crowding the tiled roof of his bunglow had provided protection to the family for generations….Oh, just like you and many others, I too have a childhood to remember, courtesy this old, quivering man who now sits with vacant eyes staring at nothing in this humid evening in Kolkata.

Uncle’s three sons were gems. All of them excelled in academics, and just like the most brilliant lot of our great country do, the first and the second sons soon migrated to the USA with their wives and children. The youngest one, Rana Da, who is a physicist, had a strong seed of patriotism sown somewhere deep within him; he settled in Kolkata, working for SN Bose National Centre for Basic Sciences, and marrying a local Bengali girl, much to Uncle’s annoyance for diluting the family’s ‘purity’ by marrying an ‘outsider’. But acceptance came easily to my Bapu Uncle, and soon things settled down for good.

Life was good till Rina Aunty was alive. The old couple lived in harmony, with small disagreements sometimes dotting their otherwise predictable life. A small suburb of a not-so-big town in Assam does not offer a myriad of choices, but Uncle and Aunty made the most of everything that came their way. Life was good. It was on a sweltering June afternoon that I went to meet them with my newly married husband about eight years back. You should have seen the excitement in Uncle’s dancing brown eyes that day!

Blame it all on me; I never bothered after that to meet the old couple. I had become selfish; after all, do not we all do when everything in life seems to move on smoothly? I have a basketful of excuses to offer – my husband’s busy schedule, my own job, the kids, the erratic maid, the unpunctual driver, etc. etc. But yes, I could not look into my own eyes in the mirror when I failed to pay Uncle a visit after Aunty’s sudden demise in her sleep. She left, just like that, and Uncle was taken to Kolkata by Rana Da.

It was a couple of months back that I had this sudden urge to see the bunglow that housed princes with golden horses and queens wearing gown sewn of moonlight threads. The need to visit the place was almost urgent, as if I had this last chance to see something which may come to an end very soon. But alas, the bunglow now stood alone, forgotten. The evening breeze no longer carried the music of some distant flute, the fish had abandoned the pond, the squirrels had found newer homes. There was no Bapu Uncle. I missed his twinkling eyes, his ready smile.

Much to my husband’s astonishment, I almost begged for a trip to Kolkata. My wish was granted easily. And here I stand, looking at the man, my Bapu Uncle. They say he does not recognize me. But do you know what I feel? The life that throbs along through any and all of my moments: this is it! It may be one of those fleeting, vague moments that we all cherish till our last breath. This old man, and his vacant eyes….That old man, and his dancing eyes. Gingerly, I take a few steps to sit on the floor near Uncle’s mahogany chair. I take his hands in my own. How his hands have wrinkled! They say he does not speak at all nowadays. My ears ache for a story, for the familiar laughter. I look into his unseeing eyes, and I see him looking down at me. He suddenly grins, a toothless smile playing on his leathery lips. He brings up his right hand and brushes away a wisp of unruly hair from my forehead and whispers, “Care for an adventure, my child? Then come tonight, and we will chase the fireflies and make a lantern for you.”

Life, like faith, surprised me again. I felt like the queen, wearing the silver gown made of moonlight threads……………….