(Part 1/2) “When I came of age, I started to wonder why my father, a devout Buddhist named me after a Hindu god. It was my sister who told me that he had a strange liking for a name and although there was unspoken dissent in the family, it did not change his decision. My name further led me to enquire about my father’s life. I learnt that his father, my grandfather had died when he was very young and after that, he led a difficult life. I have vague memories of my father especially this time he came back from the forest. He took out an object made of bamboo tied to a metal string on both ends, clutched it in between his teeth, and used his fingers to pluck on the string. It made a unique sound and I instantly loved it. He told me it was a Murchunga. I played Murchunga everywhere I went. Those were happy days. Father would bring home fruits and yam from the forest and mother would make pickle. We would eat and sing, dance, and fight. I remember one day I woke to the loud and disturbing sound of mother wailing. I was too young to understand what happened. The concept of death was based on my innocence and I did not know its harshness. I did not really know that once people died they did not come back. Father did not come back that evening. The year became dark and mother eyes looked like hollow caves. I became sad. Gradually mother started crying less and I started coming of age. And it is hard for me to remember what I did with the Murchunga. I think I just stopped playing. Come to think of it, maybe I lost interest when my mother also left.