Third Aunt: 174 Series Part 1

Single women in Bangladesh are thought to be miserable without a husband. And through injudicious doctrines and naysayers to catalyse the idea, women do internalise so. But for an abridged time. Or not.

Aunt used to too. Embraced by a hoard of nephews and nieces to build two hockey teams, she used to ponder the absence of her own family. A little angel to protect. Someone who is hers.

In being cacophonic, gleeful and prompt, aunt always comes first. Be it home, or an event, her larger-than-life presence is revered and appreciated. She basked in the attention, but more so when it was us, her beloved merry family whom she swore to adore and inspire.

It was artless, something very uncomplicated. The reign on our hearts didn’t ink dominance. It was evenhanded.

More of a companion than a guardian.

Her affection is a spring shower. A renewal for the weary. In irony, her birthday is in April, when the spring showers happen.

You’re more important to me than your mom.

Enough to permit a beautiful tragedy like me to grovel and flee from a Romeo-like fate.

Enough to be devoid of apprehension, of abandonment.

Enough to think I am not only made of soil and soul and eyes and a heart to see, to recognise trials and tribulations.

I had dense skin, yet it pricked, stung. It left strokes of crimson in my head and heart.

Now I have dense skin, an armour and a titanium sword.

I am more than soil to walk over.

I am my own knight in shining armour, and she is the oasis in the wasteland I live in.