LUCKY'S

Lucky Dhamija, cocky in bell bottoms and shiny shirt, couldn't stop honking his brand new Maruti 800 a

- Sujit Saraf

This is a story about a Maruti that became a bicycle, but because all good stories are about people, not things, I will say this is a story about my grandmother.

After Mummy died, Nani continued to live with us. It was not in Papa’s nature to suggest that she find another house on her side of the family. He was the silent type who occasionally clucked his tongue when correcting an egregious term paper but did not otherwise say much around the house. He had been at JNU for decades, first as a doctoral student—which is how he met Mummy—and then as faculty. Lucky's mother called him “JNU Professor Sahib” with a touch of respect. Lucky preferred “Professor Sahib,” with a touch of contempt. For us—Didi was fourteen and I eleven—he was simply Papa, and there was never a question of where Nani might go. She had always lived with us, from “the day Nirmala got married,” as she often said. Every few days, when the jhadu vali or someone from Lucky's house dropped a hint, she'd say, "Where shall I go? I had one daughter and now she is gone. Her children are my family now.”