When the eternally childlike Younguncle breezes into the life of one
Indian family, he brings with him stories, a touch of magic, and a zest
for life that makes for an utterly refreshing read.
That’s accurate. For me, the quality that stands out the most is the text’s almost lambent innocence. Reading Ms. Singh’s book fills one with a strange and wistful longing. And the R.K. Laxman-ish illustrations by B. M. Kamath complement the text perfectly. Here’s how the book begins:
One rainy afternoon, three children sat looking out of an open window, their fingers curled around the metal grillwork. The rain had come down like a great moving curtain, making the narrow lanes sparkle, turning the roadside ditches into torrential streams. They had watched a procession of cows canter off towards the shelter of the enormous neem tree under the corner; they had seen neighbors hurry past under wet, black umbrellas; they had seen cars and rickshaws and an oxcart splash their way through the waterlogged street. Now the rain had slowed to a murmur and the lane was empty except for a water buffalo, its black hide agleam, standing meditatively under the shisham tree on the other side.
What are the children waiting for? For Younguncle, of course. For a grown up who hasn’t forgotten how to be a child. For a proof that growing up and growing old need not be the same thing.
Come, come. That’s an adult’s response; from an uncle, not a Younguncle. Children will play in her words differently. The buffalo’s got it right. Stand in the rain, let the hide glisten. Chew. Smell the red earth and pouring rain. If you have to be indoors, find a corner, a nook, a window and a view. Chai and bhajiyas are optional. You’re in for a treat.