Where the Little Munni Wanders to Him

The Man Who Made My Childhood Golden

Every summer, I couldn’t wait to go to my uncle’s village. I would wait for the bus. Then came the slow ride on the bullock cart. Finally, I would see him standing there, tall, dark, clad in crisp white, larger than life. My heart would leap. He was the magician who turned my childhood into gold.

He had a voice you couldn’t miss, loud and warm, with a peculiar rasp that made it unforgettable. Before I even saw him, I heard him calling in the way only he called me:
“Munnakka!”

Those words, as if turned into magic, filled my world with joy. They made me feel safe, special, and unique. I felt like I truly belonged.

He made up a teasing little song in Telugu:

“Chinnavva Chiluka,
Muthyala Golaka,
Choosthe Chukka,
Lesthe Kukka.”

A playful mix of admiration and warning. She’s lovely like a parrot. She is bright as a pearl and sparkling like a star. But when she is angry, she’s a fierce little dog. Even in the teasing, I felt crowned, cherished, and endlessly special.

There were dozens of children in the house during summer holidays, cousins everywhere, laughter and chaos all around. Yet somehow, he always made me feel like the favorite. He was the only one who could handle the rowdy children. Whether it was toys, fruits, or sweets, he divided everything carefully. Each child got their share. And there was always a secret wink just for me, as if he had saved the best part. Later, I learned he did this for every child. But as a little girl, it felt like magic made just for me.

All the kids were always around him, laughing, chasing, and playing. Even during his daily card games with friends, I would sit by his side. He’d ask me to pick a card for him. He always acted as if it were the best card every single time. I believed, with all my heart, that I was his lucky charm.

He was a chain smoker. He saved the silver foil from the cigarette box. He folded tiny handbags and little silver dolls. We watched with wide-eyed wonder. Every detail, every gesture, was a quiet way of saying, You are seen. You are special.

Even before his steps reached the front door, his voice called out from the corner of the street: “Munnakka!” He did this each time he came to our house. Oh, how my ears perked up, how my feet sprang forward to open the door. It must have been a magical sight for anyone watching. Two hearts flowed toward each other. Smiles sparkled through our eyes.

But suddenly, it felt as if the magic had stopped. Adolescence had stepped in. It made me shy to run to the door. I was hesitant to show my joy as freely as I once had.

I wasn’t growing up the way the other girls did. I dressed differently, dreamed bigger, and was becoming more of a city girl. Perhaps I no longer fit the image of his little Munni. And maybe he changed too. Or maybe we simply grew apart without either of us noticing.

I cannot remember when, but I remember this feeling. One day he called my name from the end of the street. I froze. The little Munni inside me, the girl who used to leap at his voice, didn’t rise. That distance felt uncomfortable, almost unbearable. Later, I felt guilty. I felt guilty for not running. I regretted not feeling the joy I once had. I also felt the aching knowledge that he might have felt a void too. That guilt and longing stayed with me for years.

As an adult, I would sometimes see him from a distance, surrounded by other men, laughing, cigarette in hand. We would exchange quiet smiles, a little knowing. But inside, the little Munni still ached. She wanted the song, the wink, the playful magic. I am certain he missed her too, the little girl with twinkling eyes and unstoppable joy.

Even today, I carry him in my heart. I hold him not as regret or sorrow. Instead, I cherish him as the first person who made me believe the world could be safe. Who made me feel special just for being me. Who gave me a memory of love that asked for nothing, measured nothing, and simply was.

And in that memory, the little Munni still lives. The girl hears her name called with joy. She feels the crown of a teasing song on her head. She believes, always, that the world can still hold magic.

I ache to tell him, even now, that I am still his little Munni. His magic never left me. I carry it every day. I have never stopped wanting to run to him, laughing, heart full, as I once did.