Aneeta Sharma’s story is a tender narration of beautiful and warm ties that bind us forever, beyond life and death.
My grandmother was an enigma. All of four feet ten inches, with yards of a soft, muslin dupatta wrapped chastely around her head and shoulders, she ran the household unobtrusively yet with confident authority. Her whimsical smile of contentment was a permanent fixture on her face, which was deeply grooved with years and years of experience. And we, the string of grandchildren ranging in age from two to sixteen, would forever be clamouring for stories as we snuggled close to her, inhaling the luxury of her warm and comforting aroma. My six-foot-plus grandfather would amble around the house like a bear with a perpetual toothache, admonishing everyone in a loud voice but no one was ever in any doubt as to who was the seat of supreme authority and whose support could twist handles and open doors effortlessly.