Thursday Tales No. 3: Paapa
Some bonds outlive time, even if distance and changes of life blur their edges. This story was written to honour the girl I might have been had I grown under my uncle's constant affection. It is a tribute: to those who held us before we learned to hold ourselves, to those in whose laughter we now see a reflection of who we once were, and to the selves we have grown into.
What follows is a soft acknowledgment of what was, what could have been, and what lives on — across generations, through names, and in love that knows how to grow and how to give.
Paapa
“Paapa!” he exclaimed, as he lifted her into a cuddle and cheek-kissed her.
Paapa meant baby or sweetie. It sounded different to Miranda every time he uttered it, not only because it was said with such affection, but because it was associated with a special phase of her life. It reminded her of the days when she had the privilege of responding solely to that call. “Even when my children have children, you will always remain my paapa”, he had promised her. It had been almost a decade since her family had relocated to the city, 93 kilometres away. Lack of time and busy lives, more than the distance itself, had caused this gap between the families. Now, only such occasions as special as this first birthday were the moments that united them.
“Paapa!” she heard him say again, addressed to her this time, bringing Miranda back to the room, where she stood under the decorations, looking at Uncle Swaraj holding baby Saanvi in his arms, sitting at a distance. Even after all these years, he hadn’t aged at all. He wore the same kind of white poplin shirt, untucked with unbuttoned long-sleeves, paired with grey parallel pants. Silver hair still chose not to cover his crown but only the sides and nape of his head. He carried a pleasant smile of 57 years. But she had changed — from his paapa to Aunt Miranda.
The room was beaming with chats and laughter, escaping from long-restrained conversations, which no technology could help communicate. Celebration music, faded by the joy of reunited voices, feebly filled the air. Tables were blanketed with white vinyl runners. Candles, confetti balloons, and sweet goodies adorned the tables. Foil balloons spelling the thirteen letters and “Baby Saanvi” hung over a velvet curtain, pulled across the wall that supported the entrance.
“Kashi ahe, paapa?” he asked, as his calloused palm caressed her head. Miranda spiralled back to the days when she was a kid, pampered the most by her uncle during the precious years of her childhood. As she said, “Mi theek aahe. Tumhi?”, she saw his eyes glow with wonder at the art of time, which had made his Miranda paapa into a 19-year-old woman. After all these years, it seemed like the briefest exchange of reflection and admiration.
An abrupt push on her shoulder by Saanvi’s soft, tiny hands, followed by “Ba-ba-ba,” cracked both of them into giggles. It felt as if Saanvi was reminding Miranda that he was her grandpa now — and hers alone.
Throughout the hours of the celebration, the images of her childhood with Uncle Swaraj, revived by her uncle and his granddaughter, flashed chuckles on Miranda’s face.
The hour, along with the cake, arrived. A huge candle, shaped like the number one, was fixed in the centre of the large birthday cake. Saanvi paapa’s enthusiasm to dig out a handful of cake, and her failed attempts to blow out the candle added immense cuteness to the day. A chorus of the universal birthday song rose up, as tai guided Saanvi paapa’s hand to hold the knife and cut the cake. Gifts of all kinds, given by aunts, uncles and cousins piled the table. Photos, blessings, and kisses followed. But none of these delighted Saanvi paapa as much as being in her grandpa’s arms. She was keen on not letting the gifts and their presenters lure her away from him for even a second.
Miranda presented paapa with a huge teddy bear and cajoled paapa into her arms. She had almost swayed paapa with her pampering, when an “Aai!” burst out from Saanvi, who pointed her finger indignantly at the cake. Little did anyone know that even in the midst of the celebration, Saanvi had not taken her eyes off the cake, her cake, which her uncles were moving to the kitchen. A wave of laughter passed through the gathering. As Uncle Swaraj looked at Saanvi paapa with his eyes twinkling in awe, Miranda looked at them — her uncle and her niece. Smiling at Saanvi paapa’s adorableness, she whispered to her uncle, “Paapa atha moti zali” (Paapa has grown up now), and landed a long smooch on paapa’s cheeks.
- Mercy Rebonica
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