I attended my cousin’s wedding virtually, propped against an aunt’s handbag.

The handbag was placed on a chair for a good camera angle. The phone was placed against the handbag. Neither the chair, nor the handbag, nor the phone was consulted about this plan.

For me it was early morning and I was in pajamas, holding coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. For them it was already evening and the wedding reception was in full swing. We had planned this call the night before, the way you plan a rescue mission. “Stay near your phone.” “Keep it charged.” “Don’t be late.” I was early. They were late. This is how it always goes.

Every family has a story about someone who isn’t in the room. This time, the someone was me.

The call connected with a burst of noise, as though someone had opened a door onto a stadium.

“Can you hear us?” my aunt asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“She can hear us!”

“Can you see?”

I could see the ceiling fan.

“Move the camera.”

“What?”

“Move the camera.”

“She says move the camera.”

“Which camera?”

“The one you’re looking through,” I said.

My aunt then adjusted the phone against the handbag, stepped back and admired her work. “Perfect angle.”

The phone slid down slowly and gracefully until I was looking at the floor.

“Seri, seri, one minute.” She propped it up again.

It fell again. Now I had a view of someone’s sandals, a stray jasmine petal, and the leg of a plastic chair.

“Move the camera, I’m down again” I said, from the floor.

“She says the phone is tired.” my aunt laughed.

“I never said any such thing,” I protested.

“Well, blame the purse then, it’s far too slippery.”

This went on for a while. I saw the ceiling, the floor, a ceiling again and once a perfectly framed shot of a decoration on the wall. I got to know that decoration very well. We were practically friends by the end. In between, a silk saree swept past in purple and gold, a nadaswaram played so loudly the speaker crackled, and somebody nearby kept shouting, “Adjust the camera! She is watching!”

“Which camera?”

“THE PHONE CAMERA!”

“She is looking at the wall!”

Eventually, someone gave up on the handbag and just held me.

The phone began its journey. Mom took it and said my name much too loudly, as though volume could cross an ocean, and walked me through the house. “Say hi, say hi, she’s on the phone.” Relatives I hadn’t seen in years leaned in, waved, shouted something I couldn’t catch, and moved on.

“We miss you!” someone yelled over the music.

“I miss you too!”

“What?”

“I MISS YOU!”

“Ah. Okay.”

That’s the thing about these calls. Everyone says the important things at the wrong volume, nobody can hear them and somehow the meaning still gets across.

Then the music changed.

It started with a single drumbeat, and the whole hall seemed to inhale. Somebody shouted, “Lets go to the Dance floor! and I was lifted, still on the call and carried into the middle of the room.

I want to describe what a dance floor looks like from a phone held at the end of an aunt’s arm. It is lights, mostly. Purple, then green, then a flash of gold, then a very close view of someone’s shoulder. It is the sound of a hundred people singing a song I knew, slightly out of tune, at a volume that made my phone speaker crackle like a campfire.

An uncle appeared in the frame, dancing with great confidence and no regard for the beat. A cousin did a move she’d clearly learned from a video. Two aunts, who had spent the evening disagreeing about which curry was better, were now dancing together, arms linked, shouting the chorus into my face.

“Dance, dance!” they yelled.

“I’m in my pajamas!”

“So?”

So I danced. In my kitchen, in my pajamas, holding a cup of cold coffee, I danced.

My husband wandered in, took one look and quietly left.

Then my cousin, the groom’s sister, grabbed the phone with both hands and held me high above the crowd, over the bride and the groom, over a room full of people I love, laughing at something I couldn’t hear.

For about four seconds, I had the best angle of the entire night.

“Wait, wait. Everyone, say bye to her! The phone battery is about to die.” yelled my sister.

A dozen faces squeezed into the frame, all waving.

“Come soon,” my aunt shouted over the music. “I’m keeping some murukku aside for you.”

“You can’t keep murukku for that long.”

“Watch me.”

Her battery hit two percent and the call dropped mid-wave.

I stood there a moment, still mid-step, looking at my own face on a dark screen.

By now, I’m sure they aretelling it at every gathering: the wedding where the phone kept falling. It’s a good story. I’m finally in it.

I had attended the entire wedding mostly from the floor.

Perfect angle.

Thank you ShubhamAgrawal and Arpita Srivastava for this wonderful prompt that made me look at my own family story from an unexpected angle.

Thank you for reading this far. You’ve been a more patient audience than the handbag.🤪

Until next time — Inbaa

This is part of the November writing challenge from the Writer’s Circle Publication.

The Family Story: A Writing Challenge

This story is published under “Writer’s Circle.” A space for raw thoughts, everyday fiction and non-fiction, and voices that feel real and relatable. Would you like to contribute? Follow our publication. Have a story to tell? Share it with us here.

Writer’s Circle Publication: An Update

The Family Story: A Writing Challenge. was originally published in Writer’s Circle on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sandhya noticed that everyone was enjoying the celebrations except her father and uncle. While cousins laughed, children played, and elders shared stories, the rift between the brothers was apparent. They were not talking to one another.

Six months ago, when the decision was being made about where and how to celebrate their grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, it was Grandmother who suggested that they celebrate in their ancestral home.

All the family members were informed, and after the confirmations came in, a luxury bus was booked. On the day of departure, every family member found a customised goodie bag waiting for them.

When they reached the ancestral home, excitement filled the air. The younger generation explored every corner of the old house, while the elders reminisced about the years they had spent there.

After dinner, the entire family gathered in the courtyard. Laughter echoed through the house as old stories were retold.

Amdist all the merriment, Sandhya noticed something unsettling. Her father and uncle stood in two different corners of the courtyard. They did not speak to each other. The distance between them seemed greater than the distance separating the two corners.

Grandmother noticed it too.

The differences between the brothers had been growing for some time.

As the celebrations continued around them, Sandhya sat beside her grandmother.

“Daadi, what was it like when you first came into this family?” she asked.

Grandmother smiled.

“It was a big responsibility,” she replied. “Your grandfather was the eldest son, and many of the family’s responsibilities rested on his shoulders. We lived in a joint family where everyone looked after one another.”

She paused as memories returned.

“Then your father was born. There were celebrations and jubilation everywhere. He was a good boy. Then came your bua. Your father was a very good brother and always looked after her.”

A gentle smile spread across her face.

“Then the youngest brother came. Your father was more of a father than an elder brother to him. He supported him in everything and always sided with him. The two of them were inseparable. Everyone in the family gave examples of their love and affection for one another.”

Sandhya found it difficult to believe as she glanced towards the two brothers standing apart.

Grandmother continued.

“Then they grew up, got married, and started families of their own. Life became busy. Responsibilities increased. It is very normal to have differences. Every family faces them at some point.”

Her eyes rested on her sons.

“But one should never forget that blood is thicker than water. Relationships built over a lifetime should not be broken because of temporary disagreements.”

Sandhya followed her grandmother’s gaze. Looking at the two brothers standing silently in opposite corners of the courtyard, she wondered if they remembered the bond they once shared.

Perhaps that was why Grandmother had insisted on celebrating their anniversary at the ancestral home.

Not just to celebrate fifty years of marriage, but to remind everyone of the roots that held the family together.

Sometimes going back home is the first step towards finding one another again.

Thank you for reading this story , this story is inspired by this prompt.

The Family Story: A Writing Challenge

ShubhamAgrawal

Sudeshna Hajra

🌸Preeti Pathak🌸

This story is published under “Writer’s Circle.” A space for raw thoughts, everyday fiction and non-fiction, and voices that feel real and relatable. Would you like to contribute? Follow our publication. Have a story to tell? Share it with us here.

Writer’s Circle Publication: An Update

The Family Story: A Writing Challenge was originally published in Writer’s Circle on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This is a very good writing challenge, it requires us to go down memory lane, to revisit those moments, where family meant lots and lots of love from your elders because you are the youngest of all, cute, chubby, lovable and everyone’s favourite in the family.

My Father had four brothers including him and as they lost their Father means my grandfather at a very early age, my Tauji (Daddy’s elder brother) was the head of the family, whatever he said had to be obeyed by the rest three of them.

When you have three Uncles, I’m sure we all have one favourite Chachaji or Bade Papa, i had my Chachaji as my best friend.

When I was a kid, my Father used to bring us to my Uncle’s house and i used to get so overwhelmed seeing my Uncle because the moment I reached there, he gave me two rupees to go and get myself a chocolate.

Back then, chocolates made the bond more stronger, because my Parents did not allow me to eat.

As i grew up, my love for chocolates drifted and shifted to the person who is my Uncle because all we three siblings, found a friend in him, we were not scared of him because unlike other Uncles, he never raised his voice or never shouted us, he was fun loving, very down to earth, complete extrovert and laughter was his best medicine.

He was more like a close buddy than a Uncle.

So, we felt closer to him.

Whenever he visited us, with few other people, my Father used to tell me, today your uncle will come by 6 pm and I used to rush home from school, running and hopping,just to meet him.

If i reached first, I would quickly keep my bag and look at the bus stop, a bus used to ply for people, to our colony, and the moment I saw him coming, i used to run down just to hug him tight.

This bond was natural, not associated with chocolates this time but pure love and affection between a Uncle and a niece.

He came up, sat down on the sofa and I used to start my story telling, some things were significant, some were absolutely silly but he heard all my blabber patiently, he laughed out very loud on my silly jokes.

That time, when he was with us, me and my both brothers found a confidante in him, we had so much to talk to him as if, we were waiting that he comes and we start narrating.

When he left he used to ask me “ You want money” and I used to say, “ No” , still he gave me one or two rupees as he left, those days two rupees was also a big amount and if he came on my birthday it was a bumper lottery for me, he used to give me 50 rupees.

As i grew up, he suggested a alliance for me, saying the boy is good, my Father and he, had a word and this particular proposal was finalized for me.

As luck would have some plans for me, I got a flat at the same place where he stayed, not very close though, my happiness knew no boundaries, when I learnt i will be staying near him.

I visited him whenever he called me and by this time, i was a Mother, so all the love that i received from him right from the time I was born to this age was transferred to my Son, he loved my Son very much, gave him money for chocolates, entertained all his wishes and life became a full circle.

As he started ageing, he started getting age related sickness, many a times he was admitted to the hospital, i though being scared of hospitals, still went to see him and I used to cry a lot seeing him with those pipes and wires all over his body.

My Father too loved him a lot as he was the youngest of all brothers.

Age has it’s own plans and as he started ageing, he started getting many age related sickness. My heart cried to see him in pain until one day, he lost his battle with life.

I cannot put down in words, how was my condition after hearing this news. My elder brother broke down very badly because we did not loose a Uncle, we lost a confidante, a friend.

I’m still staying in the same place, and whenever I pass through that road, tears roll down, I miss his line whenever I used to go “ Beta, khana khakey jaana“ ( Have food and only then you go)

My Parents stayed far but this place was my Maika (my maternal house), my cousins are also gem of a person and so are my Bhabhis( sister in law)they always ask me to have food and go just like my Uncle used to say.

I truly appreciate and acknowledge their love but I still miss my Uncle, I miss his “Beta” word, there’s so much love and affection in this one word, I know I won’t get to see him anytime in life but whenever I remember my childhood days, Chachaji would always remain a integral part because the amount of love, affection we all three have received from him will remain alive in our deepest memories.

Healing happens with time, but the impact of the affection still lingers and I still feel, he would laugh loudly on my senseless jokes and call me, “ Betaaa”

I don’t think I would be able to write further as I’m in tears already.

I love you Chacha ji.✨🌸

May you be at Peace, wherever you are 🙏

Tagging..

ShubhamAgrawal

This is a part of the November writing challenge from the Writer’s Circle publication.

The Family Story: A Writing Challenge

This story is published under “Writer’s Circle.” A space for raw thoughts, everyday fiction and non-fiction, and voices that feel real and relatable. Would you like to contribute? Follow our publication. Have a story to tell? Share it with us here.’

Writer’s Circle Publication: An Update

‘

The Family story- A writing challenge. was originally published in Writer’s Circle on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Last summer I visited my grandparent’s home and was looking at the old photographs displayed in the drawing room. As I went through them, one particular photograph caught my attention. It was of someone I had almost forgotten.

His name was Mahender.

He was not related to us by blood, nor was he officially a member of our family. However, the relationship he shared with my grandfather was something that went far beyond ordinary family ties.

Since childhood I have always seen Mahender alongside my grandfather. My grandfather was an IAS officer who had retired by the time I was born. Even after retirement, he carried himself with remarkable grace. He was always impeccably dressed, usually in trousers and a neatly tucked-in shirt. He was extremely active, disciplined and devoted a considerable part of his day to religious activities.

There was one person who was almost always there with him like his shadow, Mahender.

My grandfather would wake up around four in the morning and Mahender would be there, attending to his daily routine. There was a hand pump visible from the upper floor of our house. I can still recall waking up one morning to the sound of it. When I looked outside, I saw Mahender drawing water from the hand pump and baba bathing there.

After the bath, he would wash baba’s clothes himeself and help him prepare for his pooja. He would make all the necessary preparations before my grandfather sat down for his daily puja, which often lasted an hour and a half or two.

Afterwards, my grandfather would visit a Thakur Bari in our ancestral village everyday and Mahender would take him in the rickshaw.

Something that always fascinated me was that despite having several cars, my grandfather hardly ever travelled in them. I had always seen him travelling in the rickshaw driven by Mahender. Whether he wanted to visit a temple, go to the market, meet someone or simply travel around town, Mahender was always there with his rickshaw.

From the early hours of the morning until the end of the day, he was involved in everything my grandfather did. He was there during his prayers, his outings, his meals and even his resting hours.

One day, I asked my father something that had been on my mind for quite some time. “Why does Mahender never go home? Doesn’t he have a family?”

What my father told me next completely changed the way I looked at their relationship.

During my grandfather’s service, he had once found Mahender lying unconscious somewhere. There was nobody around to look after him. My grandfather immediately took him to a doctor and helped him recover. Later, he discovered that Mahender was an orphan and had absolutely nobody to call his own.

My grandfather decided to bring him home. From that day onwards, he looked after Mahender like his own son. He gave him a home, care, affection and a place where he belonged. Mahender, in return, made my grandfather the centre of his world.

For him, my grandfather was not merely someone he worked for. He was his family, his parent, his home and his entire world. He devoted himself looking after him, understanding his needs and ensuring that everything was taken care of.

Over the years, their bond became so strong that Mahender could often understand what my grandfather wanted even before he said it. He knew his habits, his preferences, his routines and even the little things that others might have overlooked.

When my grandfather eventually fell ill, Mahender took care of him with the dedication of a son, the tenderness of a daughter and the concern of someone who could not imagine his world without him. He took on every responsibility he could, standing beside him through those difficult days.

Then came the day my grandfather passed away.

I was away at my hostel at the time, so I did not witness what happened afterwards. I only heard from my family that Mahender was devastated. He reportedly sat quietly in a corner and cried inconsolably. After some time, he got up and walked away.

Nobody really knew where he went, we never saw him again.

Even today, when I think about this story, I find myself wondering about the depth of their relationship. I had witnessed their togetherness throughout my childhood but I had never understood the story behind it. It took me years to realise that what I had casually considered an everyday presence was actually a remarkable relationship built on gratitude, trust, affection and belonging.

There are so many stories within our families that remain unknown to the younger generations. We grow up seeing certain people around us, accepting their presence as a normal part of our lives, without ever wondering how they became part of our family in the first place.

Mahender is one such story in our family.

Perhaps family is not always about sharing the same surname, ancestry or bloodline. Sometimes, it is about finding someone who chooses to stand beside you, takes care of you and makes your happiness a part of their own life.

And perhaps the most beautiful families are not always the ones we are born into, but also the ones we build along the way.

Mahender may have been just one name in an old photograph, but his story will always remain an inseparable part of ours.

Tagging ShubhamAgrawal for the beautiful challenge along with Parvathi J and Sudeshna Hajra to read my story.

Inviting Shravani Dhumal, Assumpta Rose and Moon & Deep to share their stories.

Thank you for taking the time to read this little piece of my family’s history. I hope Mahender’s story reminds you that some of the strongest bonds in life are formed beyond blood relations.

If this story touched your heart, please leave 50 claps, share your thoughts in the comments, and follow me for more such stories.

This is part of the November writing challenge from the Writer’s Circle publication.

The Family Story: A Writing Challenge

This story is published under “Writer’s Circle.” A space for raw thoughts, everyday fiction and non-fiction, and voices that feel real and relatable. Would you like to contribute? Follow our publication. Have a story to tell? Share it with us here.

Writer’s Circle Publication: An Update

The Family Story: A Writing Challenge was originally published in Writer’s Circle on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.