In the years growing up, Bhorot Da was more than Superman to us cousins. He had a chiseled body, could catch snakes and giant centipedes with his bare hands, would bowl the fastest deliveries at us during our cricket matches, and at our annual Kali Pujo he would dance like a mad man, holding two lit anars that spewed fiery sparks in all directions.
But his pièce de résistance was the three storey tall chnachor or bon-fire that he built single-handedly on the eve of Kali Pujo. Villagers from far and across would drop by, just to watch this burning spectacle. As the flames licked the sky, we too would watch in awe, our little chests swelling with family pride, beads of sweat forming on our foreheads from standing too close.
This year, for the first time in a long time, Bhorot Da couldn't work on his chnachor. He's been very ill of late, and excessive drinking has paralyzed his hands. But family traditions have to continue. Someone else built the bon-fire, we set it ablaze and watched it burn. It seemed smaller this year, an indication of how time erodes everything.
Bhorot Da was there too. Kalpana Di and the kids brought him over to our house. I sat with him for a while, watching him wipe away his tears with trembling hands. I was holding my wife's camera, and wanted to capture this moment in a portrait, but quickly decided against it. This wasn't the Bhorot Da that I want to remember. And so, I took a picture of the bon-fire, instead.
That night, I realized Bhorot Da was our chnachor. For all these years, he burned tall and bright, lit up our childhood with memories for a lifetime, and then, let the night take over.
