Prodhan da(the chief brother!!)

"Taarpor?''Then, what happened then?' eager heads crowded around, listening in rapt attention.
He leant back, "kichchu holo na"(nothing happened), rakishly chewing tobacco in reflective silence.
We all held our silence, we knew more was to come . "We all followed, on tip toes. "He imitated the movement, with feline grace. "It was dark, the van slowed down when it reached an alleyway for offloading.We swiftly moved in and picked up the box closest to the door.Big box it was. Thiiiiis big."He gestured with his hands . A collective gasp arose from his captive audience. Prodhan da and his accomplices had just stolen a box of frozen imported tuna from a van in the dockyard.Now they were fleeing, undetected,with their loot.
"Then police came?"whispered a kid, quivering in mock fear.
"Police?"He shot a disgusted look in her direction. Promptly, she recieved seven more disgusted looks."Never"Kokhonno na."
Then he took a huge noisy yawn, cracked his knuckles,straightened his back, and with a decisive,' Nah, ebaar choli kaaje',(let me get down to work) left us all open -mouthed, and made off to the kitchen to finish his chores.
That was Prodhan da , quintessential. He knew when to call it quits,like the legendary princess of the Arabian Nights, leaving you tantalising, tetteering on the edge.
Now in retrospect, it seems he made all those stories up, to keep us enthralled and occupied during long boring, summer afternoons.Even that calls for creativity , which he had in abundance.
 He was from Orissa.He could speak and read, bengali, oriya and hindi, could manage a passable smatter of english. Was a great cook. His retinue of abilities didnot end here. He was the best operating room assisstant in whole of the railway hospital, could rustle up delicious meals out of thin air and his bag packing skills were legendary.He would wind up or down an entire household within a matter of minutes.
His entire name was" Ontoryami Prodhan"(the psychic chief).Ontoryami he was, no doubt.A  bad affliction of small pox,in his childhood, had left his face scarred with small , circular trademark pits.
One of several siblings in an impoverished household, he was brought to kolkata, by a kind matron, who took him under her wings, and brought him up like her own child.Most of Prodhanda's 'stories' happened in the aegeis of the diamond harbour home of the matron.
One flick of a glance in our direction and he knew what was ailing us. Leaking fountain pens, blocked  toilets,burnt toasts, fungating experiments of homemade face packs, picnic hampers, holes in the socks, there was nothing he couldn't fix. In fact, those days,' ask prodhan' was somewhat like todays'look it up on google'.
He was in our household from the time we could remember.He was the cook, the errand boy, the housekeeper, the story teller, the guardian-in -absentia,( when my parents were away) and manager of my father's chaotic paperwork/phonecalls/laundry bills etc.
Disaster struck in the year 1988. My father retired from the Railways, and we had to shift house, 20 kms downstream, far from Prodhanda's beloved Dockyard and the Railway Hospital,where he was still employed. He was very clear, he couldn't leave his job.So we left.Alone.
With a vast collection of memories.Prodhanda's memories.