Memories That Do Not Fade

Do you have days when you literally do nothing and think about somethings about the past, something told to you about someone. Well this is one such day that I'm thinking of a person who was known to us, who belonged to my mother's hometown and he just happened to cross my mind today.

He was my mother's senior during their college days. He was called Somettan (Ettan, called as a mark of respect to someone elder). A very handsome, sharp and brilliant man. Well mannered, belonging to a good family of well read, cultured and financially not bad background. Theirs was a family of book lovers, knew what's happening around the world and this I say cause its during the 60s and 70s when television was non - existent and radio was the only source but only which the rich could afford.

He was a good orator and loved by all in the college. His family was known to my maternal family and they were frequent visitors to my mother's ancestral house.

Somettan too used to visit my mother's house. My mother used to clarify doubts from him regarding English literature as he had a strong hold over the language and he was doing his MA in English. My grandparents were in awe of him and always wished the best for him and his family.

But fate had something else stored for them. A mental sickness would be better to say. The whole family, one by one started behaving oddly, talking things which didn't make sense and those days visiting a doctor or anyone specialised in this was unheard of. And in general people in those days declared the sufferers as lunatics.

And one by one, the family members took their last breath and left this world. It was saddening. And now Somettan is the sole survivor. I still remember, as children when we visited our grandparents, he would come and sit in the front porch of the house mumbling something, carrying a packet which was neatly folded into a book format, neatly dressed but all crumpled. He would sit there till someone (mostly my mother or grandfather) would hand over some money and he would take it and leave quietly. Sometimes he would have to face the wrath of my grandfather of always visiting without any reason and leaving only if offered money. And I, as a child of 12-13 years old used to watch him and found it sad as well as interesting keeping in mind how my mother had told me about him as to how he was earlier and it was shocking for me to watch him and visualise how he ended up to be.

Every vacation we visited our maternal house he would turn up and the same routine would follow that either my mother or my aunties would offer him some money and he would leave. And it would be a sight for us cousins to watch him come, blabber something and leave. And my mother and aunties would talk among themselves pitying his condition which we would listen in between during our course of playing.

Now that my maternal grandparents are no more and no visits either to my mother's home as no one stays there anymore. Childhood memories of spending awesome times there always come rushing to my mind. Images, voices, stories engulf me and when I think of the front porch Somettan instantly appears in my mind though I have never spoken to him or interacted with him in any way.

I still think of him walking barefoot through the village roads, with a small packet tucked under his arm, neatly yet crumbled attire, spending his time at some temple and having food offered by them (at least not having to beg in front of anyone and not going hungry), blabbering with no one having to listen to him.

And silently hoping in my mind that he would be still alive somewhere and breathing.