Black and white memories in colour

“She is a dark baby, but looks like a beautiful angel to me”, were his words in a letter written to my aunt. I lost him when I was three. It was a scary evening, but all I remember of that incident is my grandmother’s silent tears on our terrace. It’s strange my mother says, in spite of the fact that I was pretty much on the non impressionable side of my memory, I have vivid visuals of our times together. I remember his bottle of Old Monk, I remember him taking me to a nearby Tapri and smoking his lungs out, often under the pretext of walking me to the park, which never happened. I remember him lying on the armchair, with at least four books by his side. His collections of readers digest, now passed on to me just like other books he loved keeping. I still have the glasses he used to read with.
Him humming old classics while holding me in his arms. He used to call me a scarecrow, considering I was a puny baby, though no one can say that about me now. I remember how he used to stay up nights whenever I lay sick. I have heard many a stories about him, both good and bad. He was a handsome army man with a tinge of humor and oodles of intelligence. He was quite a ladies man grandma used to say. Though short-lived am glad I had him. He inspires me to be brave, to stand my ground, to be who I am without any fears. I love you a lot Tatha and will always miss you.