There are moments when my mind, just involuntarily, remembers my grandmother. And I feel suddenly out of breath and a prickling behind my eyes that makes me blink too fast. I remember her smell — of pan, amla oil, detergent and powder all mushed-up together. I remember how she loved her little ghee soaked mithai. How she read the newspaper over 2-3 hours at leisure, discussing random tid-bits of news, analysing them, weighing them against her own experience. How she talked of the old, old days, all the while chewing on some form of supari.
But I can’t remember any specific words she said to me, though there were a lot of those. Funny how memory works.
I miss you so much.