Uncle Nigel Wronski

Our great, great Uncle Nigel used to regale the assembled Wronski family whenever he could with his wistful reminiscences of his time in the sub-continent during the Raj.

Breezy monsoon nights, the scent of jasmine wafting in the gentle swaying night air, chilled Gin Gimlets on the veranda, the occasional Bengal tiger strolling through the garden, impulsive high speed midnight forays into the countryside in the Rolls Shooting Brake, shocking the staff with the whole crowd of them stripping naked and cannonballing into the pool, hits off hastily made mango bongs, peeled grapes, reckless liaisons with the governor's wife, awakened at the first of dawning and watching the day's Rangoli being lovingly applied at the front gate with hand ground semi-precious gem powders whilst relaxing with a hot cup of spiced Chai and a fresh hand rolled bidi, the morning bath scented with rose water and exotic perfumes.

And, speaking of those Rangolis, with all those gem stone powders.


Every evening that day's lavish hand applied art piece would be washed away. Either by the monsoon rain or buckets of water to slush it away onto the roadway just outside the front gate. 

It happened that the property entrance was located at the crest of a hill. When the Rongoli was washed away the fine gem pigments would spead onto the road and down on either side from its crest. The effect was magical, day or night. In sunlight or lit with the beams of an automobile, the road on either side leading to Uncle's plantation looking like a sparkling rainbow. If his casa was your destination, no mistaking that landmark.

Those were the days.
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