A bowl of gold dust

She was six when I first saw her.

No. Six days, not years or months. It was a wet August afternoon when Sunil came running to our house, “Uncle ji! A little laxmi has arrived in mamma’s lap.” Papa tapped him and went away to see Sharma ji and Mrs. Sharma. My mother was already there.

Sunil was five then and I was eight, the tallest, the strongest, the least charming and the oldest. Eh! I hate this idea. But when you stay in a company of a six year, five year and a new born one, you have very little to help yourself from the feeling of being old. 

Old at a paltry age of eight! So was I. Sunil was a junior at studies, though we were never to the same school. We, my family including the big old me, stayed in his house as tenants. He kept on hanging in my kitchen as much, because my mom is the most fabulous cook of all time. OK, arguably she is, but I am not in a mood to argue over this. Not today, actually on a second thought, never!

He would turn up with his books to papa for studies and then will keep on playing with my kid brother. They gelled well as they were of the same age group. They both had this habit of pestering my mother for sooji’s halwa (a sweet dish we prepare with coarse flour, butter and sugar). My mother, as much she is skilled, as she is kind, to crap kids.

Me! I was only the wrong’un, who didn’t fitted the picture but Sunil handled me well. Honestly he had little to choose from as I was the only one who knew maths, and the maps, and the drawing and yes! Above all, the marble tricks.

We visited Sharma’s in an official ceremony; the auspicious one celebrated on a kid’s 6 day completion. And there she lie, wrapped in cotton wool, softer than the surroundings, as cute as the fresh siwaiyaan Asim’s mom kept in his Mickey Mouse lunch box, as beautiful as a Asha Parekh in one of the Chitrahaar songs I kept watching secretly with one eye. Ah! As lovable as it gets. She was right there.

She was the youngest and was more of a doll to all. None of us gave her any respect in true sense, though love was flooding in the form of cheek biting and nose poking. Soon she got a name for her, Smita. But none of the other kids called her by this name. She was named mita, seemu, mooli, lakdi and more than anything else I always called her Nanhi for she was so young and cute.

She apparently never liked those names and we never gave an ear to any of her likings. Specially the younger kids would treat her with all sort of fun and she would eventually turn up to me with big droplets over her cheeks, calling them names and to comfort her I’ll have to scold them. At times I would even beat them up for false to make her happy. She would giggle and smile and laugh and clap. Awesome!

She never named me as my brother never did. I was always her Bhaiya and they there were Atul bhaiya and Sunil bhaiya. She would say this to everyone, I’ve three bhaiyaas, one is Sunil, one is Atul and the third one, the biggest is Bhaiya. Name? Uh! He hasn’t any.

Time passed as it always does, the good and the bad, the sweet and the bitter, the little and the big. Years moved, calendars changed. She was a notorious six year old now, when we left her house and moved in to our own. The distance was not much and so the detachment was not felt soon. We kept in touch, daily became weekly, monthly, quarterly and then it was really hard.

There was school, there was cricket, there were a lot of other stuffs and then we were not that much in touch. I missed her smile but the days have to move on, without much glitches they did actually.

I’d meet up Sunil once in a while and enquire about the little Nanhi but those were reducing times and we had a whole world to enquire about. And then I had to move out of town where even my mother and papa were quite out of touch. The dust slowly subsided, the talks faded and she was on the backdrop somewhere, deep, down, buried, yet alive.

I am thirty two now. It’s been nine years since I have been working here and I am now the talent manager here.

Delivering a speech on company ethics and work policies here, I am happy to see the smiling young faces. There are a dozen of kids who just finished their engineering and joined our company with loads of dreams in their eyes. As I finish it and wish them luck for their career, three of them approach me to clarify some doubt over their role in the projects and the locations in coming months.

Everyone is leaving now. I have closed my laptop and my marker, I am about to leave and find her gazing at me, I quickly look around. No! She is watching me, there’s no one else in the room.

“Excuse me miss…”

“Um, nothing… sorry.”

“It is OK. You alright.. Miss ?”

“No! Call me Nanhi.. Bhaiyaa!”

The tears, they are real pearl beads. I am speechless and glowing.

Love is in the air, the chilly wind has unfurled the age old book. The gold dust is floating in the air. And Nanhi, she is as cute as it can get.

A drop wins the fight with my eyelashes; my cheek feels its warmth, my heart feels hers. 

The Christmas carol rolls over… 

Angels we have heard on high

Sweetly singing o’er the plains

And the mountains in reply

Echoing their joyous strains