Day 77. My first salwar kameez came from him. It was chocolate brown with a printed dupatta. I treasured it. Wherever he went, on official work, he would always get me something. Without fail. Every time. And it had to be the very best. He wouldn’t settle for anything less than that for his dearest niece. So from Tripura it was a turquoise blue silk material, in Hyderabad it was an orange cotton material with golden streaks. Both were stitched into skirts. My one and only kaka (uncle, father’s brother) whom I call by a rather nonsensical name of endearment not to be shared on social media. And I address him by the Bengali equivalent of tu (tui) not usually used for uncles and aunts. But I picked it up somehow and every time I used it, especially after I grew up a bit, my mother would try to correct me, only to be told by an indulgent uncle that it was alright.
This peach (yes it’s been a peach week, but not by design) Venkatgiri was a gift from him too. On the occasion of his elder son and my brother Jishnu’s wedding. We had gone shopping for the saris together. My mother and me with my uncle and aunt. Just like we went shopping again for the bride’s saris a month later. Along with the bride and bridegroom.
Some saris select themselves. Like this one. As soon as my aunt invited me, Achintya and Ma for lunch, I knew I had to wear this sari. I wanted them to see me wear it.
The afternoon began with me sharing with them details of my recent trip to Hyderabad that took me back in time, had me retracing footsteps. And as I told them about the shop my uncle had bought me that orange material from or that house where they came with my brothers on a holiday. For the older one, it has remained a prized memory. And for the younger one, a regret… that he doesn’t remember much of it. After all, he was not even one then. That trip is memorable for two more reasons. The first was a lunch at a revolving restaurant. It was a unique experience. That restaurant is no more but the memories remain. And they go round and round in my head, just like that restaurant. The second was another lunch, this time in a dhaba, made memorable by a photograph. A group photograph. Of my father, his brother and his sister with their mother, my grandmother. That is perhaps the only photograph of the four of them. It enjoyed pride of place on my aunt’s dressing table, always. Like it holds pride of place in my heart. Picture perfect it was, picture perfect it remains in my heart but alas only in my heart. That frame can never again be repeated, ever. But it remains framed in memory. For a lifetime and after.