Dear Raju Chachu… You Took a Piece of My Childhood With You

Dear Raju Chachu,

This birthday feels different. Incomplete.

Maybe because birthdays have a way of taking us back to all the birthdays that came before. And when I look back at mine, you seem to be woven into so many of them.

Having been born and raised in a joint family, I have infinite memories of you etched in my mind. You weren't someone I met only at occasional family gatherings; you were simply part of everyday life. From my birth to my childhood, teenage years, adulthood, my wedding, and everything that came after, you were there. And perhaps that's why it feels impossible to think of my life story without finding you somewhere in its pages.

The Chachu of My Childhood

You were seventeen when I was born. I was the first child of the next generation of our family, and you were the last of the previous one. It's as if you were more of an elder brother to me than my uncle. Mom tells me that as a baby, I was almost always in your lap. Apparently, I preferred you so much that sometimes she had to take you along wherever she went because I simply wouldn't leave you.

I don't remember those days, of course. But perhaps somewhere, the heart remembers being loved even when the mind cannot.

As a toddler, I would sit beside you while you studied and insist,

“Chachu, mujhe bhi panna hai…” (Chachu, I want to study too)

You would hand me your notebook, and I would happily scribble on its pages while you continued studying beside me. I sometimes wonder if either of us could have imagined how many years that little girl would eventually spend studying.

Then there was Vaishno Devi, the two of us sitting together on a horse, singing Lakdi Ki Kathi on our way up.

It's strange what grief brings back. Not necessarily the grand occasions or important dates, but the smallest things: a notebook, a horse ride, a silly song, and suddenly these ordinary moments feel more precious than anything else.

Our Cool Chachu, Our Santa Claus, Our Teddy Bear

You were always our cool Chachu, and in many ways, our Santa Claus and our teddy bear too.

I still remember all of us cousins crowding into your room in the ’90s and turning it into our own little disco. You had that disco-light ball throwing colors around the room, and we would dance to Yeh Kaali Kaali Aankhen, Baba Sehgal’s Thanda Thanda Paani and whatever else was playing those days.

Looking back, those were such simple times. No elaborate plans, no fancy parties, just a room full of cousins, some very ’90s music, a disco ball and our cool Chachu letting us have the time of our lives.

And then there was Christmas. You were our secret Santa long before we fully understood the idea of one, quietly filling our Christmas socks with chocolates and making sure that, somehow, the little things we wished for appeared. In fact, that was you throughout our childhood. Whatever we wanted, you somehow tried to make it available for us.

Perhaps that's why you never really felt like just an “elder” in the family. You were one of us, only seventeen years ahead, someone we could laugh with, ask things from, and always feel comfortable around. Our cool Chachu, our Santa Claus, and, with all that warmth and affection, our teddy bear.

And you were an amazing cook too. I can still almost taste your papad ki sabzi, my absolute favorite and one of those tastes that will always feel like home. I even took the recipe from you and tried making it myself, but somehow, I could never make it taste quite like yours.

Maybe some recipes carry a little bit of the person who makes them.

And that part can never really be recreated. ❤️

A Birthday Cake Made of Pakoras

One memory feels particularly close to me today. My tenth birthday.

It had been raining heavily; there was no electricity, and in my ten-year-old mind, my birthday was ruined.

We couldn't make a cake, nor could we buy one. But you couldn't see me sad.

So you did what you did best: you found a jugaad.

You went into the kitchen, fried aloo-pyaz pakoras, put a candle on one of them, and told me to blow it out. And just like that, I had a birthday cake.

Even today, I smile through my tears when I remember it.

Because now I understand that the memory was never really about the pakora. It was about a Chachu who couldn't fix the electricity or magically produce a cake, but could still make sure that a little girl smiled on her birthday.

That was you.

And perhaps that's why all of us nieces and nephews had so much fun growing up with you. You were someone we could laugh with, joke with and simply be ourselves around.

There were falooda ice creams, family outings, and countless little moments of laughter.

And then we grew up.

Birthdays became weddings, and you were there for those too, running around, arranging things, taking responsibility, and making sure everything went smoothly, always with that infectious smile of yours.

And Then Came Nishka

Years later, when I brought Nishka to India for the first time in 2019, I watched a little piece of my own childhood repeat itself.

Just as I had once been constantly in your lap, she was too. You took her for walks, played with her, and fed her with your own hands.

The same arms that had once held me were now holding my daughter.

And during our most recent visit, I remember how happy I felt when she hugged you as you came to meet us at Mom and Dad's house.

It seemed like such an ordinary moment then. I had no idea how precious that hug would become.

I'm simply grateful that she got to experience your love too.

“Raju Chachu Hai Na…”

As I grew older and eventually built my life thousands of miles away, you came to mean something else to me too.

You became reassurance.

Living so far from my parents comes with a certain helplessness. You can call, video chat and arrange things from afar, but you cannot simply show up when they need you.

And yet, I never worried as much as perhaps I should have. Because somewhere at the back of my mind was always one comforting thought:

“Raju Chachu hai na…”

If Mom and Dad needed something, you would be there. And you always were.

I don't think I realized until now how much security that gave me as a daughter living so far away.

I had simply assumed you would grow old alongside my parents. That you would continue to be there for them and, in doing so, continue to reassure me from thousands of miles away.

But God and destiny had something else in store for all of us.

And perhaps this is one of the hardest parts for me to accept, the person whose presence made the distance from my parents easier is suddenly no longer there.

A Photograph That Means Something Different Now

There is one photograph of you and Daddy that has always been one of my favorites.

I clicked it when Nitish was leaving for the US for the first time for his studies. We were all sad about him leaving, but in typical family fashion, we were trying to turn an emotional goodbye into a fun farewell. Daddy was hugging you, and the two of you were making funny faces for the camera.

It's such a happy photograph.

After Daddy passed away, I would share that picture while remembering him. It captured his playful side exactly as I wanted to remember it.

I never imagined that one day I would look at the same photograph and be remembering both of you. 

Photographs are strange like that. We click them to preserve an ordinary happy moment without knowing how much meaning that frozen second may carry years later.

That photograph once made me miss Daddy. Now it makes me miss you both.

You Took a Piece of My Childhood With You

I am beginning to understand that when someone we love dies, we don't only lose them from our future. Something changes about our past too. Because certain people hold versions of us that very few others remember.

You knew the baby who wouldn't leave your lap, the toddler scribbling in your notebook, the little girl singing Lakdi Ki Kathi beside you, the ten-year-old blowing out a candle on a pakora, the teenager dancing under your disco ball, the young woman whose wedding you helped make special, and the grown-up daughter living thousands of miles away who found comfort simply in knowing that you were close to her parents.

And you continued to quietly cheer me on even after I had moved so far away. You would watch and like my dance videos and my poetry, always encouraging the things that made me happy. In fact, the last message you ever sent me on WhatsApp was a picture of my poetry book that you had bought with so much love. I didn't know then that it would be our last message. Now, every time I look at it, I think about how even towards the end, you were still doing what you had always done: showing up, taking pride in us, and quietly cheering us on. And perhaps that's why losing you feels like losing a little piece of my childhood itself.

And yet, through all these memories, there is one thing that remains constant.

Your smile.

That infectious smile was part of almost every version of you I remember, and somehow, you gave it to us even in your final moments.

Despite everything you were going through, you smiled at us one last time on the video call.

That smile will remain etched in my memory forever. Maybe that's how I want to remember you.

Not through the illness or those difficult final days.

But smiling.

This Birthday…

This birthday, my mind keeps returning to another one, the ten-year-old girl with no electricity, no cake, and her Chachu walking in with aloo-pyaz pakoras and a candle.

If I could go back, I would tell her to remember that moment carefully. Because decades later, she would understand that it wasn't the unusual birthday cake that made it special. It was the person who made it for her.

Perhaps that's the thing about family. We live ordinary moments assuming there will always be more. Another birthday, another wedding, another falooda, another hug, another phone call.

Until suddenly, there isn't.

You took a piece of my childhood with you, Chachu. But what a beautiful childhood you helped give me, scribbled notebooks, horse rides, Lakdi Ki Kathi, disco lights, falooda ice creams and pakora birthday cakes. And then you stayed woven into my adulthood too, through my wedding, my daughter, my parents and my life from thousands of miles away.

So I will try not to remember you by the difficult last few months, but by the decades that came before them, and by that infectious smile you gave us even at the very end.

This birthday feels incomplete without you.

But somewhere in my mind, that ten-year-old girl is still blowing out a candle on an aloo-pyaz pakora, with her cool Raju Chachu standing beside her, smiling.

I think that's where I will keep you.

I wish you were here, Chachu. ❤️