I recently made this trip to my hometown and spent time with people who are related to me by blood, i.e. cousins, uncles and aunts. We have not met each other for a long time and had never really grownup together. Earlier, the times that we met up each other were the occasional family events, either someone’s marriage or death. (I have always felt partly amused and partly sad about these connections when people come together either for connecting two people or saying goodbye to the departing souls as though our connections are based on something onerous happening in our lives. Otherwise, there is no need to connect.) But I digress!
There was a little boy – the youngest in the family – growing up in a huge house, with a busy doctor father, and a proud and somewhat indifferent mother. His mother had kind of handed him over to her widowed sister, who had taken shelter in her house after her rich and debauch husband passed away, leaving her in the lurch, childless and desolate. The widow embraced this little boy as a gift against all her lost children. Her husband’s waywardness and debauchery had ensured that she carried full term and gave birth to stillborn children. The little boy lapped up the attention and affection that his aunt showered on him. His mother had scant time for him or any other children; she was busy managing a large household, and playing nurse and companion to her much respected doctor husband.