Second uncle (and aunt) : 174 Series Part 4

By



If being realistic was a human being, it would be him.

His words unravel itself as an advice, or a lesson, even if unintended.

The coarse cobweb of life sewed itself in his heart and mind. A thread which he can’t cut off.

Sooted feet for miles to his work. Humble beginnings to a superman who gets looked up to by three people whose gilded presence light up his world.

In all his sternness, imposing persona and razor sharp truths, he is a person capable of generosity, tepidity, and a lots of laughter. He can laugh.

At times, my aunt can make it stop, which is another story. I won’t tell it another day.

Aunt is an enigma. A very unfathomable one. She has a bit of Urdu on her, and her siblings have the same eloquence in their exchanges. But I decrypt the meaning quite easily.

A balmy spring one, then a blistering summer. The two spectrum of her sentiments.

A polarity from her better half.

I am cognisant of such differences. And I very well know why when I see them.

The tribulations of life persists, but so do they.

The unwavering waves, they weather it. Always.




I'm 25 and awkward. Dreaming big so if it breaks, the pieces are in thousands.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Third Aunt: 174 Series Part 1

By
Image
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 be...
Read more

Mom

By
Image
  I’m not sure if idyllic is the right word to say when I was enough to be between two arms.   Or mom was when her own flesh materialised in front of her.   The glacial weather was bearable because her tiny reflection warmed her insides, she said. A winter’s tale started that day.   It still persists. A perennial winter.   The youngest daughter has birthed a girl, in a man’s world. Hence, a gilded cage is a must.   The exception is, mom was in the cage too. And now even more than I am.   I made a gigantic dent, but mom couldn’t fly through it.   The horrors persist, but so does her flailing wings.   
Read more

Third uncle: 174 Series Part 5

By
Image
He loved my mom to bits. He loved me and my sister to bits. He has two sons and no daughter, and he braved the world’s opinion of girl children and named us his own. As if we are his blood. Which we are, even in a patriarchal society, we’re claimed to be our father’s daughters. He had a significantly deep moustache since his young adult days, side parted hairs which always affected people in his perimeter. He may not have had intangible redeemable traits to translate into tangibles, yet he was earnest in his ways. It expressed on his face when I used to tiptoe into his home while he worked on his computer or played games. We’d spend hours voicing all things unhinged and wise and learn and unlearn. “If you apply boiled  rice  water on your face, the acne scars will go away.” I was a worrisome child with growing pain, searing through my skin, my insides, and my naivete would hinge on anything for the need of respite. No use. Out of mom’s siblings, he saw me suffer with dermatiti...
Read more