One of the traumatic memories that keeps coming back and has shaped me in many ways is appearance of this man in rags, with knotted hair, unbearable stench emanating from him, teeth all stained, barefoot at our garden door. I was out, as always, playing in the garden, when I heard someone knocking at the door and the moment I opened, there he was – a sheer horror to behold.

First I thought he was a beggar, asking for food and alms but he called out my mother’s nick name which only family circle of Bijapur knew. I ran inside to call her in shock as familiarity struck the moment I heard his voice. He was the man I didn’t like much since childhood as he always pinched my cheeks hard and teased me. He was always this flamboyant dark glass wearing wannabe hero kind.

Could it be him? My elder uncle who had gone missing after bringing down fortune and business built by my Nana? Questions were many and my heart was pounding till my mother came out and confirmed my doubt. I was hiding behind her and taking a sneak look at him in utter shock.

Now there was a moral dilemma – to let him in or not? My father was alway at his long distant job location. My mother instinctively wanted to slam door on his face with anger but then he started sobbing and pleading. Literally, the erstwhile angry young hero was begging for mercy and help.

My elder siblings were dispatched to send off couple of telegrams, one to my father to return immediately. He was given a bath, fresh clothes and a barber was called in to cut his locks. He was in a daze and looked almost lost. He didn’t even look into anyone’s eye. Like Kafka’s creature he seemed to have undergone metamorphosis – that’s what money, freedom and bad company does to a person, I was told. He was very ill and it was a daunting task to keep the room he was in sanitized and stench-free. Soon my Appa arrived and they took him to a renowned hospital.

What I got was only updates after that. His wife who he had abandoned had returned to his side to nurse him. His son was at his maternal home. My mother’s side was justifiably angry. This person had squandered off my Nana’s earnings, his antiques, personal museum, his honour and had disappeared leaving his mother and younger brother in penury. They had to sell off beautiful furnitures and move out with bare minimum essentials to a kind doctor’s garage-room – a move to one single room from a mansion must have been traumatic.

Well, coming back to our anti-hero. He needed rehabilitation and care. He was in hospital for months. He soon regained his charming persona and doctors who were treating him gave him a small job offer. In short his rehabilitation was a success.

They rented a small room in Ulhasnagar itself. Again, I was the only one who frequented it to meet my elder aunt. She too started working to make ends meet in a nearby hosiery factory(there was no dearth of those in Ulhasnagar). I went during day time to avoid meeting my uncle. I feared him, pitied him, but I still admired the way he was recovering. I understood he wasn’t trustworthy.

Maybe I admired his wife more than him. My mother, his wife – both could have turned him away or gone to the cops. They had legitimate grounds too – a case of cheating, fraud certainly. But grudgingly my Aai did what she could to help him recover and then told him straight – not to ever visit her. He kept the word. His wife was more magnanimous, she didn’t leave his side.

We left Ulhasnagar soon after. When I bid my Mami farewell, I couldn’t give her the forward address. He had not only been legally disowned long time back but emotionally disowned too.

I don’t know if he ever wanted to be in touch. I am told he is still in the same vocation attached with the hospital. I didn’t try to find him. He simply has strewn away parts of the puzzle I am trying to piece together – life of my Nana – his photographs, his antique collections. It all literally went up in the smoke and was downed with liquor I guess.

There has been a psychiatric diagnosis that explained partly why he indulged and couldn’t return home but one can’t deny the fact that he chose to indulge carelessly and irresponsibly. I often think, was it the tourists who came to visit Bijapur who gave him a reason to indulge and splurge? Was it a spin-off which Nana did not factor in?

It all happened long after Nana passed away, yet everyone I speak to, blames Nana for not being strict with his wayward son, lacking in business acumen etc. But then a creative photographer who followed Mahatma Gandhi around the country and was totally into conserving deccan cultural heritage, how could he be a full time watchful father?

Unfortunately, family wealth, heirloom and mental health of my mother and other family members never recovered. It remained an unprocessed trauma and we went on to inherit it partly.

I always considered alcohol and drugs as the true enemy. Though in social gatherings I did sip but fear always loomed large – what if ? That ragged man at the doorstep is still my most real worst nightmare.