Memories pickled in the jar of life

The smiles, the tears, 

Of boyhood’s years, 

The words of love then spoken; 

The eyes that shone, 

Now dimm’d and gone, 

The cheerful hearts now broken! 

My mother lost her father when she was 6 years old. However, the extended family took care of her and her siblings. She took the names of certain uncles and aunts with a lot of love and respect. She told me that poverty of love is the biggest poverty and luckily she never had to face poverty of love.

The old couple in the picture is Late Dr. Haranath Hazarika (Koka) and the Late Smti Swarnaprava Hazarika (Aita). Aita is my own grandmother’s younger sister.

This couple was very close to my mother and her family and took great care of them. My mother used to say that as she grew, Aita in addition to being a senior Aunt was also a friend and mentor who guided her and taught her a lot of things that a girl growing up in olden times needed to know.

Koka was the most handsome man in our family. He was a Doctor who passed out from erstwhile Berry White Medical School in Dibrugarh. In addition to being handsome, he was a very sweet-natured and genial old gentleman. I myself never saw him angry.

When my own Grandfather died, Koka took care of the landed property that came into the custody of my Grandmother. Grandmother would have been helpless in maintaining the landed property without his support. I am talking about the late forties and early fifties when it was nearly impossible for a woman to do these things by herself. My mother used to tell me, she can never forget the strong helping hand of this couple in her upbringing.

Koka had a flourishing medical practice in a place called Kalaigaon near Mangaldoi. Like all people of olden days, he had a huge family. Since they settled in Kalaigaon, we children nicknamed them as Kalaigoan-Koka and Kalaigoan-Aita. All his children and grandchildren went on to become highly successful and established people in course of time. Aita was a very hardworking lady and she imparted this quality to all her children (Who are my Aunts and Uncles).

I still remember the day in the seventies like yesterday. My mother had gone for some shopping and me and my brother was alone in our house. Suddenly a cream-colored Fiat car stopped in front of our wooden gate and Kalaigoan Koka and Kalaigoan Aita came out. Before they could say anything, I proudly told Koka, “My mother will bring Cadburys for me”. Koka smiled and said, “Oh, is it? I love Cadburys”. I liked him and so promised to give a piece to him.

My brother, on the other hand, had an interest in more mundane matters. He made friends with the driver of the Fiat car and within a few minutes he sat on the driver’s seat and started an imaginary journey to a far off land named “Foreign”. Whether he reached “Foreign” I cannot say today.

How beautiful were our olden days!  

Sometime in the mid-Eighties, Koka shifted to Guwahati near our house where his son had purchased a piece of land and built a big house. The old couple did not want to leave Kalaigaon but with advanced age, it was very hard to stay there. Moreover, all his daughters and son were based in Guwahati and they could take good care of him when he is nearby.

It was during there stay in Guwahati that we interacted with them on a regular basis.

This incident happened sometime in the later part of the eighties. During, my student days I also worked as a teacher to earn some pocket money. Once I earned the princely sum of Rs 600 and purchased a camera. Next day with a roll of Fuji-colour film and my camera in hand, my mother and me went to their house.

Koka and Aita welcomed us as always and despite mother’s protest, Aita went to make tea. My mother went into the kitchen to help her. Someone had recently gifted Koka and Aita a colored TV. However, they were unable to use the remote control properly. I showed them how to increase the brightness and contrast. They thanked me profusely and predicted that with this intelligence I will go far in life.

After tea, we took some photographs and these photographs remained like pickled fruit in the jar of lovely memories of life. My mother was a simple woman with a few belongings. As we rummaged through her things, we found an old album with these pictures. Her precious possessions were few and frugal but they are priceless for us.