How my unmarried uncle left a lasting impression on my life

Today, let me take you on a journey, a nostalgic one, to meet someone who shaped my childhood in ways I didn’t fully grasp until years later. We called him Taya Jee, my father’s elder brother, but to keep it simple, let’s just call him Uncle. Now, picture this— my father was one of eight brothers and had three sisters. That’s almost a dozen children. Can you imagine? Eleven siblings under one roof! Sometimes, I wonder how they all managed to survive without losing their minds…or each other.
Uncle was my favourite. He was the one who lived in Srinagar, nestled in the heart of Kashmir, and once a year, he would come to visit us, wherever in the country my father’s army duties had taken us. Uncle, a retired army clerk, lived a simple life on his pension. He never married, and for a long time, I thought it was because he was too busy having way too much fun.
Whenever Uncle showed up, it was like a holiday had arrived with him. He brought stories that rolled on like epic sagas, tales of snowdrifts taller than a man and frigid winters in Srinagar. He took us on endless walks, showered us with snacks, and filled every spare minute with laughter. His visits, however, meant that my mother was glued to the kitchen, whipping up mutton and chicken curries every single day. It was a culinary marathon for her, but for my dad, my brother, and me, it was absolute heaven.

Now, I’ll admit, I was endlessly curious about Uncle’s bachelor life. One day, I asked him, “Uncle, why didn’t you ever get married?” He burst out laughing and said, “Me? Unmarried? Oh, no, no—I’m a bachelor!” He emphasized the word like it was a title. “There’s still hope!” He’d say it with such mock-seriousness that we’d all laugh. It wasn’t until much later that he admitted, in a rare moment of seriousness, that he’d once promised his mother on her deathbed that he wouldn’t marry. There was something so noble yet heartbreaking about it, but Uncle was always more interested in making us laugh than in revealing his own sorrows.
Then came a summer in the early eighties, when my mom, brother, and I went to visit Uncle in Srinagar. That trip was pure magic for a kid. Srinagar was something out of a dream— the Dal Lake, rows of poplar trees swaying in the breeze, snow-dusted mountains, gardens bursting with colours, and skies that stretched out in endless blue. Every day was like a new adventure.
But I noticed something peculiar. Every morning and evening, Uncle would disappear for an hour or two. One day, my curiosity got the best of me, and I finally asked, “Uncle, where do you go all the time?”
His face broke into a grin, and he said, “Do you want to come along and see?”
Early the next morning, I followed him. We walked a few kilometers to a modest building tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. As soon as we arrived, a wave of young children came rushing up to greet him, all laughter and light, tugging at his arms and clinging to his sides. That’s when I found out: Uncle was a regular at this orphanage. He taught the kids there every day, for free, and used his pension to buy their books, cover their fees, and fund their excursions.
I was stunned. This was the man I thought had spent his life enjoying carefree bachelorhood. But here he was, pouring his heart into these children. His daily routine was a mission of love, and most of his money went right back into this little orphanage. As we left, he said, “You know, these kids need a little discipline too— whenever a donor brings treats, they eat like there’s no tomorrow!” He laughed, but his eyes twinkled with something deeper. I knew then that Uncle wasn’t just someone who enjoyed life—he was someone who gave life to others.
Over the years, whenever I found myself at an orphanage, it became a ritual to bring books, stationery, and anything else they might need. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how much of that came directly from Uncle’s influence. I may not have adopted his bachelor lifestyle, but his legacy, his spirit—that lives on in me.
And you know, every time I step into an orphanage now, I feel his presence beside me, as though he’s giving me a wink or a grin from above, saying, “You did good, kid.”
Authored by: Bhannu Arora
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