This is neither an epitaph nor a tribute, as words can never hope to capture the effervescence and sheer liveliness that characterized Nupur—my chirpy and sparkling cousin, who, with her ready repartee and infectious laughter, brightened up any gathering, and succeeded in bringing a reluctant smile to the face of even the most serious souls.
But why say ‘bijli chali gayi’? Nupur’s dazzling complexion made her the cynosure of all eyes, and simultaneously, the envy of all the numerous cousins in our larger-than-life family. (In fact, it was during one such family wedding, that she earned this befitting sobriquet.) Coupled with a bubbling personality and an irrepressible zest for life, it led to her being compared to ‘bijli’ in more ways than one. During any family wedding, she would flit around the wedding arena, dressed in a bright pink or dark purple lehenga, laughing, joking, and pulling the leg of many a hapless individual. No sooner would the wedding procession led by the bashful groom arrive, than she—with the rest of us hovering around like coy companions—would greet them with the lively folk songs that characterize a typical marriage in Bihar.
The word ‘Nupur’ means the tiny bells on an anklet. And the gracefulness, with which she did the bamboo dance for Sports day in College, proved that Nupur had not been wrongly named. Her nimble footwork and agile steps enthralled all—so much so, that our Principal sought her out and specially congratulated her on her performance. This singular honour would have gone to anyone’s head, but Nupur, with her characteristic simplicity, just took it in her stride.
Basically, she was one mischievous kid. The nursery school she attended included, among other examinations, a test on how neatly a child ate his or her food. Nupur, all of six years old, was the first to finish her food, and, angelic smile firmly in place, shyly accepted the teacher’s compliments. With her trademark grin, later she confided that she had gently brushed aside all the remnants with her foot, so that they were found below the table of her unsuspecting neighbour.
As children, our main activity was to do a vanishing act at critical moments, so as to avoid getting caught for the mundane and humdrum household tasks, which are the bane of any summer holiday. This involved quick thinking, and Nupur was a master in that. Mysterious disappearance in the morning, and a silent reappearance in the afternoon, when Chachi was asleep, was the winning formula. Nupur would creep in quietly and smuggle out two large mango pickles before she was noticed and uncomfortable questions asked. If we were caught in some naughty endeavour, her quick-wittedness extricated us from the sticky situation and concomitant ire of a heavy-handed relative.
The mischief did not give way to sobriety even after she became an adolescent. My mind goes back in time and space to one classic occasion when she was traveling on rickshaw with her father, a professor by profession and a strict disciplinarian by nature. The rickshaw almost overturned on one horribly potholed stretch, and Chacha exclaimed angrily that she had almost knocked him off. “Papa, don’t give me ideas!” was the saucy rejoinder, vintage Nupur style.
Nobody could remain angry with her for long or even indifferent. Though during her illness, the sparkle was subdued, traces of the old Nupur surfaced every now and then, and one felt that nothing had changed much. If you were burdened with worry, she was ready with a smile and a joke to lighten up the moment and make you believe that this too shall pass.
It is now more than seven years since Nupur decided to leave us to our earthly pursuits. Her passing, for me, is the passing of an era--of laughter, of childhood pranks, of enduring innocence. Like a bird, she has winged her way to the eternal blue skies, while we grapple with the unvarnished truth—that there will never be another like her.
