The dark room was echoing with the cries of a woman when suddenly the cries of a newborn child resonated against the walls of that room. The woman fainted while her man in another part of the house breathed his last. Wails of women could be heard throughout the house. It was a large, rich household; a house with long corridors that connected the numerous rooms and a courtyard where all members of the joint family were gathered, some mourning the loss of the favourite son of the house and some mourning the arrival of his daughter into this world just as he passed over to another realm. The year must be 1932, the place Bengal. My grandmother was only four years old at that time. She had no idea that life would never be what it could have been if her mother was not a widow.
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