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
The boy, now a young man, took up a job as a clerk with the state government in Kolkata. Most of his siblings had also settled down in Kolkata by then. The young man, lets call him P, had given up on his dreams of becoming a magician and a doctor, continued to work as a government employee and passed his spare time mostly in gambling and drinking. The money left by his father for his and younger sisters education and marriage vanished into the blue with his elder brother’s film making business.