Crooked Uncle

The Bengali Baboo. Twenty-One Days in India (1878–1879). The Teapot Series by George Aberigh-Mackay

Crooked Uncle would visit our house once a month. Always on a Sunday at twelve thirty in the afternoon, half an hour before lunchtime. I would wait anxiously for the doorbell to ring, announcing his arrival. Three short rings and then silence. He would hobble into the house, wearing a crisp white kurta and flowing dhoti, propelled by his walking stick. His chauffeur would rush forward to help him up the stairs.

Crooked Uncle belonged to the same village as Grandmother. He wasn’t her biological brother but the two of them had grown up together. I always wondered why he had such an unfortunate name that drew attention to the condition of his legs. When I asked Grandmother, she wagged her finger and said that he’d been rude to his mother when he was a child and that God had punished him by giving him crooked legs. 

There was a steely glint in her eyes when she delivered this information. A warning that children rude to their mothers were almost always punished with a physical deformity.

I made it a point to keep a safe distance from Crooked Uncle when he visited. His legs both frightened and fascinated me in equal measure. I felt God had been unfair, the punishment too harsh for a man who seemed quite amiable otherwise. But he’d also taken my father away, much before his time. So I harboured no illusions about fair play in the heavens above.

I'm sure Crooked Uncle had no idea how dark my thoughts were. He would smile at the solemn-faced little girl standing near the stairs and hobble his way up to the first floor where Grandmother lived. There he would chatter away with her, reclining against fluffy pillows on her four-poster bed, eat a sumptuous lunch of rice, dal, fried vegetables and cottage cheese curry finishing it off with piping hot samosas and an assortment of syrup-laded sweetmeats for tea. He would leave when the skies turned scarlet. The chauffeur would help him into the car which would then roll down the street and disappear round the corner. For the next couple of days, I was careful not to be rude to my mother. Till it was time for his visit again. Children have incredibly short memories you see.

When I grew up, I discovered the truth behind Crooked Uncle’s legs. It wasn’t divine justice but a case of ignorance and apathy. Crooked Uncle had been born bow legged and no one had bothered to rectify his condition. With the help of his chauffeur and servants, he had managed to get by without much difficulty. Money was never a problem, his father had left him a tidy allowance that he lived off. I don’t think he had to work for a single day of his life. He died peacefully at a ripe old age of 90, surrounded by his helpers. 

Crooked Uncle never married. I guess no one was willing to take a bet on him with his physical deformity. I sometimes wish I hadn’t gone through most of my childhood being repulsed by his legs. He might have been excellent company for a lonely little girl. I can still hear his booming laugh echoing off the walls of our house if I listen hard enough.

 

A Simple Question

I was in the cab yesterday, returning home from Delhi, when I suddenly had the urge to ask my cab driver how long it would take to get to Farrukhnagar.  Farrukhnagar is a small town nearby that flourished under Mughal rule due to its salt trade. I’ve been reading up about the place and want to schedule a day trip to see the remnants of the Mughal era, mainly old forts and baolis (stepwells)  -- that are still there. 

In the old days, a question like this would have unleashed a flurry of comments from the old man. He’d probably say some relative of his lived in Farrukhnagar and the place was no longer like it used to be. As child he’d would go there to play with his cousins and they’d climb trees in the big field next to the Gol Baoli. He would smile, his eyes would light up and the ramshackle cab - that had looked as though it would fall apart any second - would suddenly pick up speed. A simple question would have turned into a lively exchange of memories. We’d talk about how monuments need to be better looked after. And then, I’d reminisce about my childhood and the antics I’d get up to with my cousins. You need to call them and find out how they are, I’d remind myself.

But I don’t say anything to the driver. 

I mean, it’s probably a daft question anyway. I can always look up the internet and see how long it will take me to get there from Gurgaon. And while I’m at it, I can also find out about hotels and restaurants where I can have a quick bite and use the washroom. Technology has made it so convenient. No need to ask anyone anything. All the information is at your fingertips.

But then, a tiny voice whispers in my ear. Convenient, yes. But at what cost? All of this convenience is robbing us of human connections, isn’t it?. What about all the stories you won’t get to hear? Technology is not going to bring you that, is it?

I take a deep breath and lean forward, “How long would it take me to get to Farrukhnagar?” I hear myself saying.