Memory 1

It’s summer time in Lansdowne. The hydrangeas are in full blue bloom. The bumble bees are bumbling along. There’s a nice warm sun smiling outside the house. Inside, temperatures are close to freezing. My 18-year-old long haired, long nosed cousin, referred to in family circles as The Genius (he shares a birth date with me – few years removed – but that’s about it), is fingering a copy of Times of India in Nanaji’s torture chamber with the multiple glass windows that overlooks the red-roofed houses of lesser mortals further down the slope.

Nanaji (wrapped in his thick-as-a-carpet tweed housecoat, secured around his ample waist by a tasseled rope) is sprawled at a gravity-defying 120 degrees in his easy chair. He looks at me from behind glasses most definitely thicker than the window pane behind him. “Bhaisahab ka jootha khaya karo, shayad un jaise ban sako,” he says with biting sarcasm. I have effortlessly managed to score zero out of 10 in his quick fire round of news based questions which (immediately after my humiliating failure) The Genius has answered staccato while simultaneously breathing on his fingernails. Taking a quick step forward I whip off Nanaji’s tassled housecoat rope and twist it a few times around that long neck (in my mind). In fact, I slink out of the room, tail tucked between the legs.

Memory 2
Another summer vacation. Same scene as Memory 1 with Nanaji sprawled on easy chair at similar tilt, a natty tweed cap pulled low over his forehead. The Genius is missing but his arrival in Lansdowne is awaited. To my delight he is late – a crime second only to bad handwriting/ not being able to spell Nadia Comaneci’s surname in Nanaji’s Book of Criminal Procedure. Eventually, he arrives.

Nanaji: Kyun bhai, tumhari ghadi mein kai baj rahe hain?
A big clock hanging right beside Nani’s favourite calendar decorated with Lord Shiva in tiger skin, a crescent moon in his knotted hair and the Ganga sprouting from somewhere around, shows the time as 4 pm, many hours  beyond when The Genius should have arrived home.

Kill Joy: Nanaji, ham Kotdwar se paidal hi aa gaye, socha bus tikat ke do rupaye bacha lenge. (I walked so that I could save Rs 2 on the bus ticket)

There are shock waves in the room – the unbelievable jerk has walked 20 plus kms to save two rupees. We (riffraff of school-going cousins hanging around in the hope that The Genius is going to get a dressing down today) look at each other sadly. Hope dies silently. From the glint in Nanaji’s nau-nambar ke chashme I know he hears deafening APPLAUSE.

The snake victoriously slithers off to the kitchen to swallow a samosa sandwich and some jalebi dunked in milk. “Bhaisahab se kuch seekho. Paisa ped par nahin ugta, uski kadr samjho,” (Money does not grow on trees, realize its value, learn from him) says Nanaji, scalding the rest of the brood of us idiot spendthrifts with a nasty half smile. Killjoy emerges from the kitchen wiping a spot of sweet chutney from his chin, licks it off his finger and heads back for the torture chamber balancing a cup of steaming hot tea for Nanaji.

If your tastes run into sadism and you were enjoying these painful episodes, the fun is over my friend. I’m going to stop reminiscing right here because if I continue to squint my eyes and think back on all the childhood memories I have of Cousin Killjoy, I leave myself unprotected against nightmares that  wake me up middle of the night with gaspy breath and sweaty palms. He was this infuriating genius who knew it all (from who was India’s first Vice President to the words of the Preamble to how many spokes there are in the Ashoka Chakra to complicated maths equations to world politics to which record the Carpenters were coming out with next).

He was this God on Earth reborn in our family to vanquish morons like me by stopping their air supply by having their noses rubbed in the mud in Nanaji’s bageecha. He was this incredible superman who would lead us gaggle of cousins on calf muscle knotting walks to the Pani ki Tanki, half way to Jaiharikhal; get us back in time for some “baagwani” and then trail us to the dining table for a brunch of manduve ki roti and hara namak. And while the rest of us scrambled to cover the butter on our plates with our rotis, he would be found eating just that when Nanaji came spying on us to ensure healthy zero cholesterol diets, his laathi clicking on the wooden floor.

Killjoy was a pain to grow up with. I wouldn’t wish an elder brother like him, even on a sworn enemy, unless I really hated them. Nothing I did was good enough (not that I ever did much), never could I match up to this gifted genius, never was I as bright, as quick witted or as enterprising as him. Never could I get as many gold medals in Physics. Though I’d like to blame the last on the fact that I never had physics as a subject.

He was even forgiven that horrible Vinod Khanna meets Mithun Chakravarty hairdo he kept through his growing years which I’m sure made Nanaji shudder privately though he did get the flak once for keeping his top shirt button open with a “kya tum lafange ho?” which made me walk around with a song on my lips for a week. But other than that I don’t think The Genius ever made a mistake in life. The world came to a standstill because he was studying for his IAS prelims. Even my animal loving mom smiled indulgently when he cold bloodedly boiled the eggs of roosting pigeons to pay them back for crapping on his books. He was evil. He was a pain. He was an ugly blot on my beautiful childhood.

But like they say, time heals all wounds. Some years back, he called from half-way across the world to patiently explain to me how planes were changed, and assured me I wouldn’t get left behind anywhere, when stomach churning nervous I was making my first foreign trip alone.

And then I remembered that he had bought me a Cross writing instrument and tossed it at me casually when I was thinking of becoming a writer once upon a time. He has indulged in other acts of repentance that I wouldn’t want to embarrass him with now. But in the past few years, I’ve noticed that when I have a life altering question to ask he is often the one I mail my query to, confident in the knowledge that I will get a quick mail back, irrespective of his work responsibilities or time zones. Believe it or not, I’m almost fond of him now. The fact that he reads my blog dutifully might have something to do with that though.

Rachna Bisht-Rawat is a journalist and writer. She is also mom to a nine-year-old and gypsy wife to an Army officer whose work takes the Rawats to some of the most remote corners of India. You can read her blog at rachnabisht.com