Manab Bhindew, I thought you would always be there

When I think of Manab Bhindew, I see his face with that slight smile. Always calm. I have been trying to remember if I ever saw him angry. Even when we were growing up and being mischievous, doing things we shouldn’t have, I don’t think I did.

He was one of those people you just knew would be there. You didn’t question it. You grew up feeling safe because he was around, and then you grew older, had children of your own, and his presence still gave you that same comfort. So somewhere in your head, you believed that was how it would always be.

And now he’s gone.

And I don’t know how to accept that. Another father figure gone. Another person who has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I keep seeing his smile, remembering one thing and then another, and crying all over again.

Growing up, we ran to him and Rani Baidew for everything. A small cut, a fever, some pain we couldn’t explain. It didn’t matter how small or how serious it was. My parents would call one of them, and they would come running. No questions asked.

I remember how much better I would feel just knowing they were coming. Nothing had happened yet. Nobody had given me any medicine. But they were on their way, so I could stop being scared.

While I was still in school, I went through this rather ridiculous phase where I was convinced I had terrible spondylitis. I couldn’t bend down, couldn’t do things. There had been doctors, medicines, exercises, and I had worked myself into believing there was something seriously wrong with me.

Looking back, it was all in my head. But at the time, I had got so caught up in it that I couldn’t get myself out.

Then one day Manab Bhindew came over and gave me a very affectionate scolding. What was I saying? Such a pretty young girl couldn’t be having a problem like this. Just sit up straight. I would be fine.

And that was it. Somehow, all my so-called spondylitis disappeared.

It sounds ridiculous even as I write it. But I needed someone I believed in to snap me out of it. And I believed in him. So completely that when he told me I was fine, I could finally believe I was.

A little later, just before my tenth boards, I had appendicitis. And it was Manab Bhindew who operated on me. What I remember about the whole experience is that we were laughing. I wasn’t frightened. I wasn’t worrying about what would happen. It was him in the operation theatre. I trusted him completely.

Whether it was a little cut or surgery, I had that same faith in him. He was there. I would be alright.

Then, during my tenth boards, I got it into my head that I had to see his face before going for an exam. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do well. He brought me luck. I was absolutely sure of it.

So every exam morning, our car would take a detour to their house in Kharghuli. And poor Manab Bhindew would be standing at the gate, waiting for me.

We were always in a rush. There wasn’t time to go in or sit and talk. I would wave at him from the car, see his face, and go to write my exam. That was all I needed.

And he did that for me. Every exam morning, he stood there so I could see him.

I am crying as I write this because I can see him so clearly. I can see the gate. I can see his face. And I can remember how reassured I felt as we drove away.

And then there was his fond warning to every new son-in-law joining the family. Whenever one of us girls got married, he would laugh and say it wasn’t easy being married to a Barthakur girl. We were the best, of course (😂), but we were strong, and our husbands needed to be ready for that.

Every new son-in-law got some version of that advice. I can almost hear him saying it now, with that smile on his face, so pleased at his own joke! He knew us so well.

There are so many little memories like these. Things that didn’t seem extraordinary then because this was just how he was. He turned up. He made time for something as silly as my needing to see his face before an exam. And we went on with our lives, knowing we had him.

We had such a huge family growing up. If we said we were calling only the immediate family for dinner, it could mean a hundred people. That was our immediate family. So many people, so many homes we could walk into, so many people who had a say in our lives because they loved us.

And now, one by one, we are losing them.

The people who kept that family together. The people who knew us as children, who loved us, scolded us, worried about us. All those familiar faces we expected to see when we went home.

Our family is shrinking, and it hurts in a way I don’t quite know how to explain. I know we are all growing older. I know we cannot have everyone forever. But knowing that doesn’t help today. Today I just want them there. I want to go home and find the people I have always found there.

And I am hurting for his son, who is my best friend. His dad is gone. Along with my own grief, I keep thinking about his. I keep thinking of Rani Baidew. I wish I could be beside them. There is nothing I can say that will make this hurt less.

I couldn’t be there when he passed. I wish I had been. But I am grateful I went to see Manab Bhindew the last time I was in Guwahati. At least I saw him. Today, that matters so much to me.

Still, I want to see him again. I want another visit. I want to hear him speak and see that smile and feel, for a little while, that with him there, things will be alright.

Manab Bhindew, you made me feel better so many times in my life. When I was ill, when I was frightened, when I needed someone to snap me out of my own head, when I decided I needed luck. Sometimes you didn’t even have to do anything. I just had to see your face.

And today I don’t know what to do with this pain, because the person who could make me feel better is the person I am crying for.

I keep seeing you standing at that gate, waiting for me.

I thought you would always be there.