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.

 

Why I love Gurgaon

I love Gurgaon more than the city of my birth - Kolkata. Before you raise your eyebrows, let me tell you that it wasn’t a love-at-first-sight kind of story for me. Rather, a love that developed, matured over the years and stood the test of time. The best sort of love really! In fact, I would go so far as to call Gurgaon my muse. Most of my novels and short stories have been written about this place that I now call home.
 
Twenty five years ago, when I arrived at this dusty hamlet, my first instinct was to hop right back on a flight headed to Kolkata. I still remember the first sight of Gurgaon from the airplane window, in between the cotton wool clouds, as vividly as though it were yesterday. Wide, open spaces everywhere I’d looked, not a building in sight. 
 
A bumpy touchdown later, I discovered that the hamlet was bustling with life. There were multinational corporations and call centres. Genpact and car manufacturer Maruti were the star attractions those days. There were condominiums, bungalows and a smattering of grocery shops, tailoring boutiques and hole-in-the-wall eateries selling rajma chawal, tandoori chicken and jeera aloo. There were no fancy malls, restaurants, lounges or pubs to hang around in. It was North India’s equivalent of a quiet little Gaulish village.
 
The years brought globalisation and rapid economic growth.  The sleepy Haryanvi hamlet was transformed into a throbbing, bustling urban hub. The empty spaces got filled up by glass and steel skyscrapers, the grocery stores turned into supermarkets and the local boutiques run by homely Punjabi women morphed into swanky malls and designer stores. Rajma chawaland jeera aloo became passe. Sushi, bulgogi and imported truffles were de rigeur. There was an influx of migrants from all corners of the globe.
 
The contrasts and contradictions of this rags-to-riches story were too obvious to ignore. With the glitzy hub having come up almost overnight, Gurgaon didn’t have the infrastructure to support the demands of development. There weren’t proper roads, lighting or sanitation.  Come monsoon season each year and all hell would break loose. The roads would be submerged (if they were not caving in, that is) leaving residents and officegoers stranded inside their fancy condominiums. In winter, there was the problem of heavy fog and inadequate street lighting. Add to that, the incessant power outages. 
 
Gurugram’s success story was developing holes. Almost as deep as the ones on its roads. The earthquakes only made it worse. Gurgaon was high risk seismic zone IV. 
 
The BPO boom also had an unlikely beneficiary. The language of the rustic hamlet had changed overnight in a manner that would have put Danish linguist Otto Jespersen out of business! People were now conversing in a language that can, at best, be described as a fusion of Haryanvi, Hindi and English, peppered liberally with Americanisms.
 
There were other, subtle changes in the colour of the place that were hard to spot at first. While, on the one hand, wallets were getting deeper due to the industrial and property boom, there were people living in abject poverty. The construction boom had also made the air in the city unsafe to breathe. Air quality index in Gurgaon had touched the 700-mark making it the most polluted city in India!
 
You may ask, where is the silver lining in this rather gloomy story? Well, I’ll tell you.
 
The best part about Gurgaon for me are its people. A motley crew that has gathered here from across the world – literally! The same bunch that gathered at Leisure Valley Park recently to protest against air pollution. It is Gurgaon’s community that gives the place a warmth and vibrance I have not found anywhere else in the world. Some of my closest friendships have been forged at Gurgaon. My human and book babies were conceived here. This place has given me a lot.
 
In fact it’s not just me. I’m sure the canines would also agree. Take a walk to Galleria, Gurgaon’s answer to Khan Market, that happens to be a few steps away from my house. You will find the strays well looked after -- blankets to sleep on, water and fresh food provided by kind-hearted Gurgaonwalas.
 
A few years back, I fell and became unconscious outside my condominium while returning from a grocery run. A young woman and some auto-rickshaw pullers found me, retrieved my mobile phone and dialed the last number called (which was home) to say I needed help. I will never forget their kindness. That to me, is the essence of Gurgaon.