Ever since I can remember being able to walk around, I had always found myself spending time in the quarters just upstairs of ours, B1-107/4. My parents had to go to their workplaces, my brother had to attend his day-shift school, and my mother sent me to the safe custody of the Ghoshs.

In those days, no concept of ‘babysitters’ existed. The benevolent neighbours like the Ghosh family I am talking about volunteered to take care of the young children belonging to working parents. Not only they took good care of the children but also they played a significant role in raising those kids up. Those days…when neighbourhoods were undoubtedly safe havens for children, especially.

So, the Ghoshs appeared as an interesting family to me. The father of the family was a very reserved person whose only conversation with me was ‘Porashuno korecho?’ , the mother always made sure that my tummy was full, whereas the 2 sisters took care of dolling me up when I attended any function under the sun, concocting interesting stories to keep me engrossed, helping me out in decorating craft projects and styled my hair.

The family had 2 brothers too. They made me give dictations from English newspapers or magazines in a variety of speeds while they honed their stenography skills. I never could realize how and when I started sharpening my pronunciation skills, too, meanwhile. As I grew up, the dictation session started involving discussions on contemporary issues, political or otherwise. Even though I did not understand much, the discussions propelled me to read as much as I can.

The summer afternoons turned delightful with delectable ‘‘aam makha’ mostly prepared by the younger sister with the mangoes belonging to our garden. Any dull day cheered up with impromptu ‘‘Luchi-Sada Alur Chocchori’ or ‘Sujir Payesh’ made by Ghosh Kakima. I remember loving the ‘daals’ she cooked. I found the preparations so delicious that I used to brag about them to my Maa, herself a good cook, by saying, “Tumi Kakimar moto daal ranna korte paro na?”

The winters were always blissfull under the warm sun, on the terrace, whiling away our time with oranges, or tasting the raw homemade potato chips just kept out for sun drying, or chatting around. The winters were also the time when they would rent a few video cassettes and watch a handful of Hindi movies. The ‘movie-watching’ part was the territory where I was not allowed to venture in my own home. However ‘harmless’ the hindi movie was, my mother would say ‘Porte bosho’. She felt that a kid should not watch Hindi movies at all save some ‘Pradeep Kumar, Ashok Kumar type melodramatic movies’. In the Ghosh quarter, however, I was the happiest trespasser in the world of Hindi movies. I remember watching ‘Jo Jeeta Wahi Sikander’ in a fast forward mode and running downstairs to my own quarter just before mother returned from her workplace. That film had a great impact on me. I took cycling seriously.

Years passed. They shifted to another quarter in the same neighbourhood. I got addicted to storybooks, grew up my own little world around me with storybooks, our little garden and my brother’s Atlas cycle. The 4 brothers and sisters slowly got settled in different jobs and moved out of our neighbourhood. I, too, moved out to Kolkata for higher studies.

The visits became rarer. We became busier in our lives. The chats and the long whiling aways shortened to WhatsApp chats and Facebook posts. Yet, on a sunlit day, a gloomy evening or on ‘Bhaiphota’s, the moments spent in B1-107/4 come alive, bring resounding laughters and joys with them, light me up and then fade away slowly.