His name was Shakar. But we called him bhaiya, my bro and I. And he'd call us baba and baby.
He was from Jammu and he could make the meanest rajma chawal I've ever had. He was tall, had big mooch and he always wore the same army-commissioned white t-shirt and olive green trousers.
We went to him when we needed an extra notebook. When we needed tamarind from the tree in the front lawn. When we wanted a chocolate bar or a library book.
He took bro for his tutions on his Avon cycle. A would sit behind him, holding on to the ends of his shirt while he raced down the hill our bungalow was situated on.
He taught me how to play basketball on our makeshift court next to the garage and he would bring his share of rotis from his langar because I loved them so much. He ignored the guy friends who'd come by when my parents would go out for golf or dinner parties. He never told on me, even once.
He flirted with my ayah when they would sit in the lawns waiting for my parents to come back after a night of cocktails, and she'd flirt back... and I'd observe them both from my room's window. He'd rattle off the hisaab (accounts) to my mother each evening. I remember trying to do homework over his tamatar-10 rupya, bhindi- 15 rupya, baby ka kitaab- 20 rupya, bread- 14 rupya...
He threw up when he found a dead lizard in my chest of drawers. He removed the lizard afterwards though, because I refused to go into the room otherwise.
He cried when his father died of a heart attack. He was just 25. My dad hugged him and told him to be strong. Mother passed him 200 rupees for his journey back to his village and I made him a card from a sheet in my drawing book. Bro just stood next to him while he cried his eyes out, saying, "baba, pata nahin kaise ho gaya yeh sab (I don't know how this happened).' I stood there in my verandah while he sat on a cane garden chair with his head in his hands. I didn't touch him, I wasn't supposed to.
He loved us. He never said no to anything, he would never get irritated or angry with us over our incessant requests but always smiled and said okay. He climbed high up on trees to pluck jamuns for me - my one constant requirement - he never collected them off the ground saying that they were too squishy to taste good.
And we loved him. We helped out with the daily dusting of the big house though we loathed it. We'd pass diwali sweets and christmas candy. We gave him our books to read so he could work on his English. We did all we could to show him that we cared, without actually crossing the line we'd come to understand over years of being army brats.
The afternoon I had an accident, he ran all the way from our house to the unit medical clinic; his cycle had a puncture and he couldn't reach my parents. He ran, I know, because the doctor told me so. I was 14... oblivious to anyone's emotions except my own, but I realized how much it meant to him... seeing us safe and happy.
I haven't seen him since we moved out of that city some six years ago. He's posted somewhere in North-East India and occasional letters to my mother, in broken but proud English, tell us he's doing alright. She always replies.
I grow older, childhood memories seem to fade with every passing day, but I try not to forget our batman. I hold on to the time we spent with him, because for the two years he was with us, he was family.
When I go back home now, there are other batmen who call me didi... but no one says it quite like Shakar. There were other batmen who will bring jamuns for me... but they'd never risk their necks for a handful of berries. And I haven't yet met someone who'd spend an entire night staying up with me, helping me stick pictures in my summer assignment projects.
He was from Jammu and he could make the meanest rajma chawal I've ever had. He was tall, had big mooch and he always wore the same army-commissioned white t-shirt and olive green trousers.
We went to him when we needed an extra notebook. When we needed tamarind from the tree in the front lawn. When we wanted a chocolate bar or a library book.
He took bro for his tutions on his Avon cycle. A would sit behind him, holding on to the ends of his shirt while he raced down the hill our bungalow was situated on.
He taught me how to play basketball on our makeshift court next to the garage and he would bring his share of rotis from his langar because I loved them so much. He ignored the guy friends who'd come by when my parents would go out for golf or dinner parties. He never told on me, even once.
He flirted with my ayah when they would sit in the lawns waiting for my parents to come back after a night of cocktails, and she'd flirt back... and I'd observe them both from my room's window. He'd rattle off the hisaab (accounts) to my mother each evening. I remember trying to do homework over his tamatar-10 rupya, bhindi- 15 rupya, baby ka kitaab- 20 rupya, bread- 14 rupya...
He threw up when he found a dead lizard in my chest of drawers. He removed the lizard afterwards though, because I refused to go into the room otherwise.
He cried when his father died of a heart attack. He was just 25. My dad hugged him and told him to be strong. Mother passed him 200 rupees for his journey back to his village and I made him a card from a sheet in my drawing book. Bro just stood next to him while he cried his eyes out, saying, "baba, pata nahin kaise ho gaya yeh sab (I don't know how this happened).' I stood there in my verandah while he sat on a cane garden chair with his head in his hands. I didn't touch him, I wasn't supposed to.
He loved us. He never said no to anything, he would never get irritated or angry with us over our incessant requests but always smiled and said okay. He climbed high up on trees to pluck jamuns for me - my one constant requirement - he never collected them off the ground saying that they were too squishy to taste good.
And we loved him. We helped out with the daily dusting of the big house though we loathed it. We'd pass diwali sweets and christmas candy. We gave him our books to read so he could work on his English. We did all we could to show him that we cared, without actually crossing the line we'd come to understand over years of being army brats.
The afternoon I had an accident, he ran all the way from our house to the unit medical clinic; his cycle had a puncture and he couldn't reach my parents. He ran, I know, because the doctor told me so. I was 14... oblivious to anyone's emotions except my own, but I realized how much it meant to him... seeing us safe and happy.
I haven't seen him since we moved out of that city some six years ago. He's posted somewhere in North-East India and occasional letters to my mother, in broken but proud English, tell us he's doing alright. She always replies.
I grow older, childhood memories seem to fade with every passing day, but I try not to forget our batman. I hold on to the time we spent with him, because for the two years he was with us, he was family.
When I go back home now, there are other batmen who call me didi... but no one says it quite like Shakar. There were other batmen who will bring jamuns for me... but they'd never risk their necks for a handful of berries. And I haven't yet met someone who'd spend an entire night staying up with me, helping me stick pictures in my summer assignment projects.
