In the rented house we lived in at Saidar Pally, the locality before you enter the town of Tellicherry if travelling from the south, the highway ran so close that we children learned, much to the astonishment of guests, to tell the names of the buses that passed by with our eyes closed. One summer afternoon, while we were at this game, a bus from Kozhikode screeched to a halt outside our home. Peering through the window, we saw our frail grandmother alight with a sack full of mangoes and walk briskly toward our mango-tree-less house.
She had a soft corner for us, perhaps because she too was from Tellicherry. Though she married a man from Kozhikode and lived there for years, she never lost her northern accent, much as we would never lose ours. More than that, she found joy in giving. When we moved to Kozhikode, my mother would visit her mother’s house every Sunday evening for what Bengalis call adda, those unhurried gatherings where time seemed to rest. She never returned without some edible gift, lovingly packed by her mother.
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