The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

 

. The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

Beyond the Misri Nivas, beyond the gatherings and the talk of the past, there were other markers of the home’s (Nivas) history, objects and places that held their own memory. The old gates at the entrance, at the foot of our property, were known in the family as the ‘Thas Bur Gates.’

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The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

In Kashmiri, thas carried the sound of a bang, and bur meant a large door or gate. Together, the name suited them perfectly. They were not gentle gates. If left open and released carelessly, they would swing back with a forceful wooden cry —thas! — a sound so sudden and hollow that even the bravest child would startle.

They were large, weather-beaten gates, fashioned from dark old wood, with rusted iron latches, loose chains, and hinges that groaned like weary elders. They stood at the entrance to the main mansion, marking the point where the family estate began, though to the outside world they were easily overlooked. To most passers-by, they were merely old gates. But to us children, they held a deeper mystery. They seemed to guard more than a house; they stood like a boundary between the familiar and the unknown, between the safety of home and the secrets that lay beyond.

Our father, Janki, was a man of few words, but each word he spoke had weight. He did not waste speech. He allowed silence to do most of his teaching, and when he finally said something, it stayed in the mind like a line carved into stone.

One evening, his son, Bhushan, my elder brother, was sitting with his schoolwork, struggling over a particularly difficult English essay. His brows were drawn together, his pencil paused in mid-air, and the page before him bore the marks of many beginnings and crossings-out. Janki watched him quietly for some time.

Then, in his calm and thoughtful manner, he said,

“Your English has to be given more of a lift.”

That was all.

He did not scold him. He did not lecture. He did not compare him with anyone. Yet the sentence lingered in the room like a challenge and a blessing. Bhushan heard it. I heard it too. At that age, I did not fully understand what it meant, but I knew from Janki’s tone that he had planted something in Bhushan’s mind.

Bhushan nodded silently. A small determination awakened in him.

None of us knew then that this “lift” would come in a way none of us could have imagined.

Every year, Bhushan’s birthday, somewhere, the fifteenth of April, was celebrated with great affection. In our house, it was not treated as an ordinary day. Janki would take leave from school, and the entire household would begin stirring with unusual excitement from the morning itself. Soma, our mother, adored Bhushan with a softness that everyone could see. He was her most favourite born, her pride, and perhaps also the child through whom many of her hopes found expression.

That birthday that I remember clearly was full of warmth and wonder. Janki brought home a tent, and it was pitched in the garden like something from a traveller’s tale. Its canvas sides moved gently in the breeze, and to us children it seemed less like a tent and more like a palace built for one night only.

As evening fell, a bonfire was lit. The flames rose and curled into the darkening air, sending sparks upward like tiny stars escaping the earth. Around it, the family gathered. Relatives laughed, elders talked, and children moved restlessly between the tent, the fire, and the food. Mohan watched from the verandah. Lalita sang, and Sheela danced.   The smell of Rogan Josh, roasted corn, spiced potatoes, warm bread, and smoke filled the garden. It was a feast of sound and smell and light.

Soma had prepared Bhushan’s favourite dishes with special care. Her love was visible in everything — in the way she arranged the food, in the way she called him to eat first, in the way her eyes followed him as he moved through the garden. That day belonged to him completely.

Then, as if the evening had not already given us enough magic, Soma’s brother, Prithvi, our mamma quietly brought out fireworks. His son, Makhan, lit them one by one. The first burst startled us all. Then another rose into the night, and another. The sky bloomed with colour — red, gold, blue, silver — each explosion followed by our cries of delight.

For us children, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened within the boundaries of our home. Bhushan stood glowing in the firelight and the fireworks, his face lifted, his eyes reflecting the sparks above him. I still remember that look. It was the look of a child who felt, for one evening at least, that the whole universe had gathered to celebrate him.

But the birthday that followed was different.

It was quieter at first. Almost too quiet…. To be continued

Sham Misri, New Malden, London, 20-6-2026