Uncle Nuga

Uncle Nuga

Some friendships last a lifetime.

The lucky ones last even longer.

Dad and Uncle Ranjith sat side by side in classrooms throughout their college years. Long before any of us came along, they were building a friendship that would endure decades and eventually find its way into the lives of their children.

At the time, he was simply Uncle Nuga.

One of the adults who seemed permanently present in our lives.

We never stopped to think how long he had known my father.

Or how extraordinary it was that a friendship that began in a classroom would still be going strong decades later.

For me, Uncle Nuga was one of those people.

While I first knew him through my father’s friendship, I came to know him much better through Nilu.

Like many teenagers, I spent countless hours at their home. It became one of those places where friends drifted in and out, where stories were shared, plans were made, and memories were created without any of us realising how much they would one day mean to us.

And of course, Uncle Nuga was never quite complete without Aunty Pushparani.

Some people arrive in your memories as individuals.

Others arrive as a pair.

Together they created a home that always seemed full of life, laughter and people.

It was through them that I came to know the gang.

Uncle Nuga.

Uncle Nippa.

Uncle Roger.

Uncle Upaka.

There were rugby matches cheering on the red, gold and blue.

Gatherings where the stories got better every year.

Plenty of laughter.

And a group of friends who genuinely seemed to enjoy being around one another.

At the centre of it all was Uncle Nuga.

You could usually tell when he was enjoying a moment.

His eyes would start to twinkle.

A smile would slowly spread across his face.

Then would come the laugh.

A proper laugh.

The kind that started deep in his belly and drew everyone around him into the moment.

He was amused by life.

And by the people in it.

He was certainly amused by us.

Not just me, but the collection of friends who seemed to spend half our teenage years under his roof.

A group of youngsters who were often louder, more adventurous and far less sensible than we should have been.

That isn’t to say he let us get away with everything.

He could be strict when he needed to be.

We all knew when we’d crossed the line.

Usually before he had to say a word.

But even then, there was kindness behind it.

The firmness came from caring.

He knew when to laugh with us.

And he knew when to remind us where the boundaries were.

As the years went by, our conversations changed.

We spent less time talking about what was happening now and more time talking about what had happened then.

The stories.

The friendships.

The adventures.

The memories of a time long before I came along.

With my father gone, those conversations became even more precious.

Because every now and then, Uncle Nuga would share a story I had never heard before.

A memory from their college days.

A prank.

A misadventure.

A moment that had been tucked away for decades.

And for a little while, it felt as though Dad was back in the room.

Laughing alongside them.

Part of the conversation once more.

Sometimes we would find ourselves laughing over something completely random from years ago.

The kind of memory that means nothing to anyone else but everything to the people who lived it.

And I realised how fortunate I was to have someone who remembered.

Someone who could take me back to a time before I existed and bring those stories to life.

Someone who helped keep those memories alive.

When I think of Uncle Nuga, I don’t think of one defining moment.

I think of a hundred small ones.

Walking into the house and finding friends gathered around the table.

Rugby matches cheering on the red, gold and blue.

Stories that grew better with every retelling.

Aunty Pushparani making sure everyone was looked after.

The gang laughing at memories only they fully understood.

That twinkle in his eye when he was about to laugh.

And the look that told us we’d pushed our luck just a little too far.

The world feels a little quieter today.

But every time old friends gather, every time a story grows a little taller in the retelling, and every time laughter fills the room, I suspect a little part of him will be there too.

Exactly where he belongs.