My eyes were full of tears as I stood in front of the old, dilapidated ancestral house of Indra Bahadur Rai, whom I called Mama (maternal uncle). I was in Darjeeling after six long years, the longest I have been away. This was the place where I spent my childhood and youth, playing in the courtyard of Mama’s house. I vividly remember how beautiful the house used to look, surrounded by colourful and beautiful flowers: begonias, varieties of magnolia, silvia, chrysanthemum and other rare plants I had never seen before. Mama was an ardent collector of rare plants, as well as a passionate writer, scholar, philosopher, critic, teacher and orator.

In the absence of my father, who was in the British Gurkha Army, I used to call him Baba when I was younger, copying his younger daughter Bedika (Sani). My mother says that I used to wake up early in the morning and knock on the door of his house before any of his family got up to eat breakfast with them. I can still visualise the rack full of kash ko thaal and batuka (bronze plate and bowl).

Mama loved my company despite having three children of his own. He would take me for pony rides at Chowrasta, Darjeeling with Sani. We were a gang of naughty children who used to enjoy stealing unripe cherries, plums, mulberry, radish and baby corn from his kitchen garden, planted by him and Maiju (his wife). Mama never scolded us for our mischief, rather he used to tell us where the ripe ones were.

Mama would always be writing something, sitting on his big bed wrapped in a Nepali Dolai (a cotton blanket), enjoying tea in his special, carved kash ko batuka. He may have been writing Aaja Ramita Chha at that time when Maiju used to scold us for being a noisy bunch and disturbing him. I remember his very peculiar handwriting, both English and Devanagari; intentional, decorative and attractive, which his daughter used to copy, and I could not.

I used to borrow books from his home library. I had never seen anyone’s house where cupboards were stacked with books and magazines instead of decorative items, utensils or clothes. The musty smell of books in his room still lingers in my mind. He kept books of renowned writers in different languages. He encouraged me to read books like Madhuparka, and Garima as well as an English magazine called SPAN. It was I B Mama who sowed the seed of literature, writing, and reading in my young mind. If I do not give due credit to him for inculcating all these in me, it would be unfair. It was in his company that I heard about Tesro Aayam and Lila Lekhan.

I B Mama led a simple life. As a Guru, he taught us about the Satvic diet for healthy living and Pranayam, loving nature and plants. He had a cassette player (with spools) with which he used to record the sound of nature— the chirping of birds, cicadas and other insects, which he later played for us.

In his later years, he travelled to Kathmandu for literary programs. As I was the faculty head of English at Little Angels’ School, I once invited him for an orientation. He gracefully and wholeheartedly accepted the invitation despite his busy schedule. It is a memory that will remain with me for a lifetime.

Every time I visited Darjeeling, I made it a point to visit him at his new residence at Loch Nagar. He used to welcome my husband and me with a warm smile and a big hug. In Dashain of 2010, I visited him with my first creative writing publication. He took it lovingly. He then gifted me a signed copy of the latest publication on his work “Gorkhas Imagined Indra Bahadur Rai in Translation” and some of his old publications: “Kathputali ko man”, “Lekhharu ra Jhyal”, and “Sahityako Apaharan Marxwadik-Pratibadhatha”. I have treasured these signed copies. He told me, “Reeta, you will be a character in my next story.” But that never happened.

As I was leaving, he escorted me out and said, “Bhanji don’t forget to visit us whenever you come.”

In 2016 when I visited him again when Maiju was seriously ill. However, Mama was excited to see me and called Maiju warmly, saying, “Maya see who has come, Reeta from Nepal, bless her.” That was the last time I saw Maiju.

The next year when I visited Indra Mama, he was not the same. He could hardly recognise me because his eyesight and hearing had gotten worse. He was devoid of the usual exuberant emotions. Maybe the loss of his loved one had taken its toll. I remember he always addressed her with the name Maya so lovingly, as the word itself is. Mama used to amuse us by sharing the childhood story of how he used to play with Maiju and other friends, make a house of bed sheets, eat illusory food and sleep saying, ‘Sutung Sathi’ (let’s sleep, friends). His childhood friend, the life partner who had shared joy and sorrow together, had left forever, leaving him lonely.

In his stories, along with creating fictional characters, Mama also wrote about real-life characters. His wife, Maya Maiju, often appeared in his stories and novels. Similarly, Kale ko aama was one such character immortalised in his epic short story Raatbhari Huri Chalyo. I had visited Kale ko aama, a few years back before she died, she was sick then. I used to call her Badi. During my visit to Darjeeling last month, I went to see the house of Kale ko aama.

After his passing, I once again visited his ancestral house. The house was deserted and dilapidated. Despite that, I still found it to be beautiful. Because to me, it is still a colourful, lively home surrounded by young naughty children, lovely flowers, where Mama is on his bed writing something, drinking tea in his special Kash ko batuka.

I really miss him.