What Lies Beneath!

What I am going to write today is something I have never attempted before, not even in my personal diary.  It came up in a conversation this morning with my partner who suggested that I should write about my experience of my mother’s death.  He believes that something significant is locked there.  Hence this attempt to unlock. My mother was only 29 years old when she died.  I lost her when I was three years old.  In fact, she celebrated my third birthday in August of 1961 by buying me red shoes (I remember because a friend in the building asked me to stand on top of cinders on the same day and I could not wear my lovely red shoes on my birthday), and I remember her crying about my burnt feet. She passed away three months later in November, on the same day.  She died suddenly, unprepared, trying to have an abortion all by herself because she did

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My Stories – lost and found!

Today, I would like to share with you little stories of my life and my experience.  The one that I am going to share with you today is still etched in my memory as a significant event. Do let me have your thoughts and similar experience, if any. When I was six or seven years old, I lived in Kolkata with my aunt and my cousin. My mother had passed away by then and I was living with my aunt.  My cousin was older than me, in fact she was even older than my mother; and she naturally did not treat me like a sister, but more like a little girl who was a few years older than her own son. During Puja, those days, Kolkata had pandals (kind of temporary decorative structure in a religious context) which were not as fancy and as artful as they are today, but were quite large.  Alongside the puja, the area around the pandal

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