brooding over chai

 It was the year 2002. My paternal grandmother had succumbed to cancer after a twenty-day-long fight. Baba appeared strong but we knew how much he missed her. Well, my grandmother had never preferred him. It was always her firstborn that she doted upon. My father, her younger son, was left to fend for himself. During her last days, my grandmother was ill-treated by the very son she had always favoured. Circumstances forced her to leave the house where she lived. My father, the usually quiet man, revealed his proper side when he took up cudgels to fight for his mother's rights. Grandmother spent the last three years of her life with my father in peace and comfort. That was the only solace for my father. But most evenings, after her death, we would observe him climbing up to the terrace and sitting quietly. He would probably think of his childhood, his parents and maybe, the agony thrust upon him. During those pensive moments, Ma would tell us to stay away and give him privacy. Lo

 Meet Bapi! The one-man show. He repairs pressure cookers, mixers, services gas ovens and can even open locks. He is quite well-known in my area. For picking any kind of lock. And for the obscene rates, he charges. Question him and pat comes his reply, "I do house visits. I am doing my work in front of you. All transparent work. I am always available for you. Shouldn't you pay me a premium?" And that is enough to keep our mouths shut. Bapi was not born poor. Rather he was one of those unfortunate ones who was born rich but lost everything to a tragedy. His father had huge plots of cultivated land and a bookstore on College Street, the traditional educational hub in Kolkata. The bookstore was their main source of earnings. He was a well-read man who spent time with his books. All was well, till the riots struck the nation. His father went missing in the chaos. They tried their best to locate him. But ended up clueless. Young Bapi, all of eleven years, gave up the search