My Magical Palace, Kunal Mukherjee [free e books to read .TXT] 📗

with the walls painted a warm beige color. The ceiling was high and vaulted just like the rooms downstairs and an ornate chandelier hung in the middle. The door that opened to the terrace let in a gust of wind and the chandelier swayed gently in the breeze, the crystals making a soft, tinkling sound. The furniture in the room was very old and the dark wood and exquisite upholstery caught my eyes. Everything looked shiny and clean. A dark-blue Persian carpet covered the floor.

‘I hope I have none, and if I do, please don’t use tincture of iodine …’ My voice became faint at the thought of the burning sensation that the tincture would cause. It was the school nurse’s favorite first-aid medicine and I hated it, preferring the coolness of Mercurochrome when applied on cuts and wounds.

Colonel Uncle laughed. ‘Looks like you only have some scratches on your palms and knees,’ he said. ‘When I was in the army, we did not even have tincture of iodine. The doctors had to amputate arms and legs without any anesthesia.’

I shivered. ‘My father told me you fought in the Second World War. Is that true? Is that when you did not have anesthesia?’

Colonel Uncle’s voice grew grave as he said, ‘Yes.’ He was quiet for a few moments, not volunteering any information about the war. But I persisted, thinking of the war in Italy, of villas and gardens and Venice.

‘Oh, you are so lucky!’ I exclaimed. ‘Did you ever ride in a gondola in a Venetian canal? And what about the statue—Michelangelo’s David? Did you see it? And the Sistine Chapel? I wish I could go to Italy. I learnt all about it in school.’ Meeting someone who could tell me about the wonders of Italy I had only read about in books was too exciting for me and I ignored Colonel Uncle’s serious expression.

‘The Italy you study about in school did not really exist when I was there. I was only twenty-one years old and the British sent me from here to fight in the war as part of the British Army. It was a difficult time. Several of my friends died. I was very lucky. Nothing is ever fun in the time of war.’

I pointed to the marble bust of Apollo on his dressing table. ‘Is that from Italy?’ I asked.

‘Yes, it is one of the two things I have left. I gave away most of the things I had to my friends many years ago. In those days, wealthy Italian families abandoned their possessions. One family in particular preferred to give me some of their family heirlooms. They did not want the Germans to get their hands on them.’

‘What else do you still have?’ I asked.

‘This picture,’ Colonel Uncle said. It was a sepia print, brown and discolored, set in a leather frame. The leather was dark brown and covered with a fine web of cracks. Colonel Uncle picked it up from the marble-topped table and brushed the cuff of his sleeve across the front of the frame. I looked at the picture. I saw Colonel Uncle, barely recognizable. His arm was wrapped around the shoulders of another handsome young man and they were looking at each other and laughing. They were dressed in army uniforms, the British insignia clearly visible on Colonel Uncle’s uniform. I stared with fascination at the young man in the picture. He had short, dark hair and his smile was radiant. He looked rebellious and wore a devil-may-care expression like James Dean. Like in the poster in Rani’s room, a cigarette was hanging rakishly from his lips.

‘Who is this?’ I asked.

‘That is Claudio. My friend.’ Colonel Uncle saw me looking at Claudio’s picture with interest and added with a hint of laughter: ‘He looks like James Dean, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ I said, unable to hide my admiration. ‘Where is he now? Did he die in the war?’

‘No, he is alive,’ Colonel Uncle said, laughing. ‘He is a very good friend of mine and we write to each other a lot. He lives in Montepulciano with his wife and children.’

‘Why did you not stay in Italy?’ I asked.

‘The war was over. I had to leave.’ He was quiet for a second as he placed the picture back. ‘So why did you run out of the room on the terrace in such a panic?’ Colonel Uncle enquired.

‘I am very scared of the dark. Rani made a bet with me. I lost. So I had to come upstairs. Wait till she finds out I saw your sitting room! Anyway, I saw the bats hanging from the ceiling and suddenly got scared.’

‘Rahul, there is no reason to be scared of bats, you know.’

‘I know, I know! My mother told me the same thing, but then I thought there was a ghost who was pulling on my shirt.’

I felt guilty suddenly about the jokes we had made about uncle by calling him ‘The Ghost Who Walks’. Just like Phantom in the comics, Colonel Uncle was proving to be very wise and capable.

‘Mrs. Firdausi killed a bat downstairs yesterday. It probably lived up here,’ I said angrily. ‘She said that bats are dirty and strange creatures that get caught in long hair and bite.’

‘That is one of the oldest myths in the world.’

‘I thought all myths were lovely,’ I said, thinking of all the beautiful Greek myths I had read.

‘Some myths are beautiful, like the myths about Goddess Durga and Goddess Kali. Others are not so inspiring and are created in ignorance.’

Colonel Uncle was not smiling any more. ‘Fear and ignorance are our biggest enemies. They blind us to the truth, make us hate those who are different.’ He looked at the photo again and carefully adjusted it in its place.

‘Is it true that bats are blind?’ I asked. ‘Rani says so. Then how can they fly?’

‘By using sonar. Inside their brain—that tiny little bat brain—is a sonar device that is constantly sensing the world of objects. That is why a bat would never get stuck in someone’s hair, because it would avoid it easily, given its highly precise sonar system.’

I felt a surge of anger again at Mrs. Firdausi.

‘And bats eat many times their body weight in insects, like those annoying mosquitoes,’ Colonel Uncle added. Then he looked at his watch and said, ‘It is almost ten. Your parents are probably getting worried about you. I will walk you downstairs.’

‘Please do not tell my father I was up here,’ I begged him again.

‘Don’t worry. This will be our little secret. You can visit any time you want. I have been travelling to my family home in Rajasthan to take care of the estate for the past few years, but I will be here a lot more in the future. You will find me almost any time you visit.’ Colonel Uncle smiled and I felt comforted. He walked me downstairs, using the other flight of stairs that led to a separate locked door, which was his private entrance.

Rani was beside herself with worry by the time I found her.

‘Where were you and what were you doing up there?’ she demanded. ‘I almost told Ma and Baba. Of course, they would have been furious! So, what is it like upstairs?’

‘Oh, wouldn’t you love to know! If you never tell anyone that I play with your kitchen toy set, I will tell you.’

Rani hesitated. Her eyes glittered and she said, ‘I am not interested.’

‘Fine. Now you will never know what Colonel Uncle showed me,’ I said airily as I walked away, feeling a rare sense of power in our never-ending struggle for the upper hand.

 

 

KUNAL MUKHERJEE is a San Francisco based poet and writer. Originally from West Bengal, he was raised in Hyderabad, India. He holds a Master’s degree in Physics, has done postgraduate work in Energy Studies and has worked as a restaurateur and a manager of information technology.

 

To learn more, please visit: http://kunalmukherjee.com

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Publication Date: 01-23-2014

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