Deaths
Two people from one family dead within 48 hours. Lone survivor of the family is apparently munching away his grief into fried potatoes.
This man - my father's cousin, has been my subject of observation ever since 2014. Before that, I knew he existed, drew breath at just 150 km away from where I did and that's that.
Roots
I have developed this unexampled interest in my roots. As in who's my family, where do they come from and what have they been like? Right from the childhood, I've been fairly exposed to my maternal family. People I call cousins belong to the same family singularly. I am well aware of the idiosyncrasies of this family, its quirks and eccentricities.
The paternal family has been mostly wiped out from the history, quite slowly and painstakingly. And so, from my memory. Since my father is a man of few words, all we get from him when we enquire about his family are grunts and sighs that mostly stand for discontent for wasted lives of the people he shared his childhood with. Okay, sorry lives sounds apt than wasted lives.
The Visit
The two deaths had us scurrying to my father's derelict village with a petty population of 1200 or so. 350 households, I was told. To which the cousins had been the revered landlords for decades. I said 'had been' because they stopped existing a long time ago to the villagers. They physically existed, confined amid the crumbling walls that have a great past to tell.
The one who died first was reportedly seen last circa 2013. The two sisters had been known for their inseparable sisterhood and love. Grief engulfed the second within a day. Leaving behind a recluse with empty eyes & as always, an undefined future.
The Project
I thought those 3 siblings did not have drama in their lives. But I was wrong. I have been learning since their deaths many things about them. There has been enough drama to stifle you by throat. Enough conflict to compel you to throw in your towel atop human progress.
I am writing his story. A tale to be told.
Two people from one family dead within 48 hours. Lone survivor of the family is apparently munching away his grief into fried potatoes.
This man - my father's cousin, has been my subject of observation ever since 2014. Before that, I knew he existed, drew breath at just 150 km away from where I did and that's that.
Roots
I have developed this unexampled interest in my roots. As in who's my family, where do they come from and what have they been like? Right from the childhood, I've been fairly exposed to my maternal family. People I call cousins belong to the same family singularly. I am well aware of the idiosyncrasies of this family, its quirks and eccentricities.
The paternal family has been mostly wiped out from the history, quite slowly and painstakingly. And so, from my memory. Since my father is a man of few words, all we get from him when we enquire about his family are grunts and sighs that mostly stand for discontent for wasted lives of the people he shared his childhood with. Okay, sorry lives sounds apt than wasted lives.
The Visit
The two deaths had us scurrying to my father's derelict village with a petty population of 1200 or so. 350 households, I was told. To which the cousins had been the revered landlords for decades. I said 'had been' because they stopped existing a long time ago to the villagers. They physically existed, confined amid the crumbling walls that have a great past to tell.
The one who died first was reportedly seen last circa 2013. The two sisters had been known for their inseparable sisterhood and love. Grief engulfed the second within a day. Leaving behind a recluse with empty eyes & as always, an undefined future.
The Project
I thought those 3 siblings did not have drama in their lives. But I was wrong. I have been learning since their deaths many things about them. There has been enough drama to stifle you by throat. Enough conflict to compel you to throw in your towel atop human progress.
I am writing his story. A tale to be told.
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