La Cabana and Shagoofa

I did not know what to title this post. The logical one would have been 'say a little prayer for him', but somehow it did not fit the personality of the person I write about! So I chose one that did. The reason will be elucidated as you read this post. Mama's youngest sibling is fighting for his life in an ICU. He had a cerebral attack and has been unconscious for 4 days now. I only came to know about this a few hours ago.

Tonton Lune as I affectionately called him - an approximate translation for Chand Mama - and I go a long way. To my mom he was more a son than a sibling and she loved him like one would a child. She cared for him deeply and even got him to Paris when we were posted there. He quickly embraced the French way be it in food and wine or dapper clothing. Come to think of it he loves everything that spells STYLE.

Before I go further let me point him out in this family portrait - something we sacrificed to the alter of digital photography - that I found while looking for a picture to illustrate this post. He is the handsome dude in the centre and by the way  am the oldest kid. The picture was taken in April 1962.

My fondest memories of him are of the days when he lived in South Extension way back in the late sixties. I was in my teens, rearing to see the world and he was my door to freedom. With him I could go to all the places I was normally not allowed to. Spending some time with him in his bachelor's pad was priceless. It meant we could go to La Cabana and Shagoofa two of the many restaurants of the sixties. For the uninitiated, Delhi had many restaurants that played live music in the afternoon and had dance floors and exotic names. To a kind of rebellious sixteen year old these places were as exciting as biting into the forbidden fruit and Tonton Lune was my key to them. And we even danced as the both of us loved dancing. In his home he had records that I could play and he always had cars that were different from the run of the mill ones, and riding in them was a super treat. And then there was Mocambo if I remember the name correctly where one could get and savour kebabs sitting in one's car. In those days those succulent and spicy morsels were heavenly and no one cared where the meat came from!

These are my fondest memories of the man fighting for his life as I write these words.

Sadly life takes unexpected turns and we lost sight of each other, meeting occasionally at family functions, more when mama was alive and then less and less. The complicity of yore years slowly faded away. However imagine my delight when he dropped in unexpectedly a few months ago to
 simply revisit almost forgotten memories. Promises were made to meet more often, but the recluse I have turned into remained rooted to her newfound and comforting solitude.

Yesterday when I met him my heart broke at the sight of this lively and fun loving man glued to a bed with tubes and more tubes, bleeping machines and all the paraphernalia that modern medicine has on offer. I was told that he did not react to any stimuli but pain. I refused to believe that and went on a spiel breaking all barriers: space and time, language et al. I talked and talked and he responded by raising an eyebrow or trying to open his eyes. I know he heard me and I know he was laughing in his heart. I also promised him that I would come to see him regularly when he came home and I intend keeping that promise.

So yes the title should have been 'say a little prayer for him' as I know that only prayers will conjure the miracle we seek. I cannot see him robbed of his dignity as this is the one thing modern medicine does to perfection. He has to come home.

La Cabana and Shagoofa do not exist anymore but we will find a place to go to and relive memories of days gone by.

Please say a little prayer for him.