I DON'T remember when I started calling him chacha. He was chacha to all my brothers and mates. Phulena chacha was a drummer, a sorcerer, a faith healer, a barber, a storyteller and an entertainer - all in one. He was also a Muslim.

Mine is a Hindu-dominated village - Daraili Mathia in north Bihar's Siwan district. But nobody could do without him. If someone was bitten by a snake, he would rush to Phulena chacha. He would draw a circle with a pebble and command the snake-bitten patient to sit inside it. Then he would chant a mantra and caress the snake-bitten part to dissipate the impact of the poison.

Phulena chacha was a poor agriculturist. He raised cattle, ploughed his fields. His wife and other women of his family would escort my mother to the ghat for Chhath puja. He was also much sought after on the occasion of the puja of Dih Baba - a local god, believed to be the protector of our village. According to tradition, it was not the Brahmin but a Dom (lowliest of the Dalit caste) who would carry out the puja. That Dom priest worshipped Dih Baba as Phulena chacha beat the drum.

Selaur, a neighbouring village, had a Shiva temple, which used to have a mela on Mahashivaratri. Escorting me through the mela, Phulena chacha helped me buy jalebis, toys, flutes, balloons and such with all the patience in the world. While returning he would tell me tales of sparrows, crows, tigers, lions, gods, ghosts and devils.

Phulena chacha would pull out his gol topi (round cap) to offer namaz every jumma (Friday). We would gather around and watch him face westward and offer prayers. We'd try to play with his topi when he took it off. He would get angry and chide us. But he would pull me into his lap if I began to cry.

A deeply religious woman, my mother had several tulsi plants in our courtyard; there used to be a bamboo staff spiked into the ground nearby, on which a red flag would fly as tribute to Hanuman. Phulena chacha's wife used to water the plants, and he would buy the red cloth and help the priest hoist it on Ram Navami.

I was a very good player of banaithi - a stick with ball shaped pieces of wood at its two ends - which we would brandish with swords on Muharram. Phulena chacha would ask for chanda (subscription) from my father and other villagers to buy glazed paper and make tazias at our doorstep.

He too played banaithi with his younger brother, whom we called Jhulena chacha. All of us revelled in them playing banaithi and swords among themselves. We would shout "Hasan Hussein, Hasan Hussein" and egg them on. Phulena and Jhulena chachas' wives would learn to sing tributes to Karbala, the holiest shrine of Shias, from my mother who was a good folksinger.

We could not have thought of Holi without Phulena chacha and Jhulena chacha, who sacrificed a goat every Holi to ensure we had good mutton at home.

Phulena chacha is no more. I learnt of his death when I visited Daraili Mathia recently. Sad and sombre, I went to his grave. His grandchildren accompanied me. I shared some of the stories Phulena chacha had told me with his grandkids.

He was in his eighties when he breathed his last. His surviving contemporaries told me that Phulena was feeling out of place and melancholic ahead of his death. His sons work in modern salons in Gujarat. The generation has flown off. Dih Baba is no longer favoured, as Hindu youngsters are attracted more towards crying out "Jai Shri Ram" and their Muslim counterparts have turned cautious about how much to reveal of their culture and how much to mix.

With Phulena chacha's passing, an era has closed in my village. The new era has brought good roads, electricity and other modern amenities, but that time is forever lost. My mother, who misses him more than anyone else, says, "Ab log chalak ho gaye hain (People have become cleverer now)."