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I met Dee online... Dee was a good friend back in Bombay.... Ok, IS a good friend still but we chat like once in 3 months. She has migrated to Canada and is busy with studies and a baby.

Chatting with her has brought back so many memories….she told me that Uncle-ji has passed away. I still remember him... with his orange hair peeking out in tufts from beneath his white cap.

I don’t think he ever figured out how to use henna. Or maybe, that’s just the effect of henna on white hair? I thought sometimes that he just needed a dash of green somewhere...I often tended to romaticise him cos I was scripting for a movie on how there was so much prejudice against the Muslims and how the Muslims were not 'foreigners' as the textbooks alleged but were as much a part of India as any other Indian. And Uncle-ji for me was the protagonist.

When I was in Bombay, I fell terribly ill after 5 months of hostel food. Lost a whole month of college and then when I went back, Dee told me that I could stay with her granparents--Uncle-ji and Aunty-ji. So one day, we took a half-day off and went to Mahim.

It was a wholly different side of Mumbai…and I was in a daze through that entire visit. It was a totally different culture. I didn’t understand a word of what they were saying cos they didn’t speak Mumbaiya Hindi but “shudh Hindi” with a lot of Urdu thrown in.

To this day, I don’t know their real names….but somewhere deep down in my heart, I remember my days there with fondness…with a tight feeling in my chest….cos they were so good to me…

Uncle-ji would tell me all about Allah and aunty-ji would teach me how to make tea and mutton biriyani. I didn’t understand their version of Hindi very well cos it was liberally mixed with Urdu…but somehow, after I moved there, I kinda alienated myself from my classmates.

Somehow, there was something strangely soothing about being with two old people…some of their stillness of being seeped into me…it was just comforting being with them….and somehow, I sensed that having me around gave them a sense of purpose.

“Before you came, we never bothered much with the cooking,” Aunti-ji would say.
“Before you came, we were so bored.”
“Before you came, we never went shopping.”
“Before you came, the phone never rang.”

I was supposed to be their paying guest but that was just a formality. For 3.5 k, I had a room all to myself, good food and so MUCH of love. They ordered their day to suit mine. Though I had a spare key, they’d stay awake until I came back…

Often, after the scripting and shootings sessions, it was 2 or 3 a.m when I reached. It was scary walking the deserted streets alone but then, knowing that Aunti-ji’s prayers were surrounding me…was a strangely comforting thought.

I admit I was kinda prejudiced when I went to stay at Mahim. The sight of so many flowing beards and little caps was discomforting simply because I wasn’t used to it. But soon, I began to feel like I had always belonged there. Everybody came to know me. I was the “woh choti ladki” who stayed with Uncle-ji and Aunti-ji.

There was something calming about all of it. The masjid nearby. The sight of Uncle-ji on his knees before God, the sight of Aunty-ji in the kitchen…how they explained to me that we Christians and them Muslims actually shared history. How Jesus was their prophet too.

Those days I was a self-proclaimed agnostic…the only times I prayed was when I had my exams…but I think, somehow during those few months with Aunti-ji and Uncle-ji, I started believing in God. The Lord God Almighty. Jehovah Jireh for us. Allah for them.

And now…he’s gone. I know death is temporary…and I know I wasn’t in touch with them except for an occasional phone call and a visit last year. but somehow thinking of them, always gave me such an “All’s well with the world” feeling.

I am feeling…heavy.