Musings at Mori Road

I returned from office. These days it had become a struggle to park the car due to some civil construction in our colony. I somehow squeezed into a spot yet again and as I manoeuvred myself out of my car, I could not but help feel a sense of irritation yet again. There was an old Fiat parked next to mine, full of dust. It had not moved from it’s spot for as long as I could remember. “Wonder what it is with Prabirda?” I thought to myself. “Why does he not use his car anymore?” Prabirda (Prabir Uncle) was a friend of my father. He was by no means a Bengali, but my father called him Prabirda and he did not protest. I also referred to him as Prabirda but addressed him as “Uncle”. They had a group that played bridge together and Prabirda often partnered with my father. For a very long time, every weekend, it was like religion for them to gather together and play all of Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Often, when the event was held at our place, I was allowed to sit in a