In the rain puddle

As I felt my feet sinking in the rain puddles, a distant and vague memory flooded in.

Narayanan Uncle in E.N 1.

We lived in E.N.5.

I would have been not more than 4 years of age.

He'd sit on his flat-slabbed swing in his spotless white lungi with golden border and a kurta and all the children of the colony would sit down for the tales. I would stare at the golden border catching the sunlight, when my neck hurt looking up at him.

His wife would smile at us, while puttering around in the long hall. Her white bindi fascinating me. Bindis were always red, weren't they?

*****

I don't remember the tales he told. But I remember that he told them often. Most of the times the words would blur away and I would only hear his face..

Then one day he died. I was too young to comprehend what death was. Did I see a group of moist-eyed white clothed people? Or did I imagine it? Was that Narayanan Uncle with cotton in his nose, perched up on people's shoulder and not on his swing?

I only clearly remember that it poured on his funeral and I lost a shoe in the flood at his gate.

*****

There were no stories after he died.

Confused, I went to his home one day. The door, as usual, was open.

As I creeped into the hall, I saw his wife. Without the smile I knew, her face looked pale and sad.

She should have been surprised to see me, the youngest and quietest child who'd come there. Except that she wasn't.

She tried to smile. And failed miserably. My eyes must have asked the question.

She only shook her head as if saying,"No story today."

The swing was creaking alone. And empty.

*****

Strange, what a rain water puddle can bring you.