The VCR whirred into life at the exact moment when my mother
had overpowered my father. He was lying on his back, trying (and failing) to
defend himself from her tickle-happy fingers. The camera jiggled in my
brother’s hand as he shook with laughter.
My brother had returned home to
Kolkata for a visit, after a year in the US where he was helping our aunt set
up her fledgling business. He had acquired the videocam with the first of his
American earnings and zealously recorded our family life.
In agonizing detail.
