I woke this morning with an insight. The insight of my oversight.
 
I have written about my parents and my brothers. I have never talked about my grandmothers. They would have been neither hurt nor surprised to hear that. They played a part in my life and then vanished without a fuss. That is probably just how they would have wished.
 
My mother’s mother, Benodini, was in her late seventies when I got to know her well. She lived with my uncle, a successful doctor in Bihar, who had a large house in town, which he had named after her, Benodini Lodge. There lived his wife with all his many children. Uncle had another house across the river in a village, where he had started a large hospital and spent much of his time there. Benodini moved to that house, where she thought could be more of a help to her son.
 
When the Japanese started bombing Kolkata in the mid-forties, mother moved, with us two brothers, to Bihar temporarily, on her brother’s suggestion. We moved to uncle’s Lodge, but I took the first opportunity to switch to his rural home and live with my grandmother. I wasn’t unsocial, but I had enough of a social life with my parents, and I wanted the quiet solitude of pastoral life.
 
A late widow, Benodini was a hardy housekeeper, who kept a flinty eye on everything that would make her son’s life silky-smooth. From the kitchen to the clinic, nothing escaped her attention and scrupulous care. Deeply flattered that I had spurned the company of aunts and cousins in town and chosen to live with her in a village, she ordered up the best food and started the practice of asking me each morning what I wanted to eat. Though there was hardly anybody except poor farmers on the road, she arranged for my shirts to be ironed and my shoes to be polished each day.
 
She didn’t quite understand why I liked to wander for hours in my uncle’s wild orchard but, inferring that I might be in the quest for fruits, ordered quantities of mangoes and guavas. On the portico there were two huge library chairs – the black one perpetually reserved for uncle, she told me – and the brown one was graciously allotted to me. As I sat there and skimmed photos of hungry hyenas and toothy tigers in old issues of National Geographic or of busty women in Life, she came with a steaming cup of tea with cookies.
​
At night, after dinner, we would sit on either side of Benodini’s bed, and, since there was no electricity in the village, two lanterns would cast an eerie light. Uncle would tell us sad and happy stories from the day’s clinic and goad me to tell stories from my school or home. I had also the option of telling a story from what I had been reading and I would sometimes concoct absurd stories of friendly tigers and ferocious women.

​In sharp contrast to Benodini was Udaybala, my father’s mother. She was an early widow with three young children and life’s knocks had made her humble and acquiescent. She was gentle and soft-spoken, and had beautiful long fingers that softly caressed my face any time I came near her. When I was born, though my mother breastfed me, I am told I spent the maximum lap time with my grandmother. Growing up, I knew her lap to be safest refuge, especially after I had broken father’s favorite glass or defied an aunt’s edict not to steal and eat something from the kitchen. Occasionally, I succeeded in getting even my cool-headed mother mad; then I ran to Udaybala, the world’s most reliable advocate, who had a standard plea, “Oh, he is just a little boy.”
 
I have no doubt that my lifelong love of stories started with her, for she read every manner of stories for me, from fairy tales to mythic tales, and later adventures and detective fiction. I can still close my eyes and remember her soft voice, reading of handsome princes lost in the forest and wise, kind birds telling them the way. I wish I could weave a wonderful story of a caring, kind grandmother and read it back to her.
 
None of my grandmothers was a sophisticated woman, and I had certainly no need of sophistication. I was just a gangly young boy, awkward and insecure, trying to find my place in the world, forever unsure that I will find it. They were smart enough to sense my doubts and hesitation, my weak core longing for reassurance, and provided the unstinting affection I needed.
 
What I could not say, I would not say, they read into my blinking adolescent eyes. Without saying it, they let me know that I was loved, and hence I was lovable and worthy. I know now what I didn’t know then, that they were teaching me a lesson none of my teachers could teach as well: I had value and I could do things if I trusted myself to do those. All I needed was the space to breathe and grow and the loving indulgence that makes the small grow big and the big even bigger.

It happenned in my family. I am told it happens in many families – except that no one wants to talk about it. With minor variation, I suspect it will happen in many more families in days to come.
 
My niece, Ria, a charming, vibrant woman, wanted to be a geologist and went to study in a less known university in the east. Two of her friends were going there and, during the admission interview, a young professor took a lot of interest in her.
 
The first five months went like a dream. She liked the town and did well in her studies. Then all hell broke loose. Ria was pregnant. She claimed she was raped, right in the university campus. A relative who went to the university to check talked to several of her friends wasn’t so sure. The upshot was a decision not to report to the university or the police. I had heard so many glowing reports from Ria about the young professor that a hypothesis has sprung in my mind, but there was nothing to do about it.
 
The fact was that Ria was going to have a baby. An uncle in western India turned out to be the savior. He was affluent and influential and offered to host Ria for several months. He knew an orphanage that would take the baby and arrange for its adoption with a decent family. Ria told me in tears that she held the baby, a girl, in her arms for an hour before it was taken away to the orphanage.
 
To her credit, Ria went back to her studies in a different university, did very well and took a job with a mining company as a geologist. She met and married a colleague, Bhumen, seven years later and had two children, a son and a daughter.
 
Fifteen years later all hell broke loose again.

​The adoption of Ria’s baby girl hadn’t gone well. She had been adopted initially, apparently on a whim, by a small trader and his wife, and then returned six months later when his wife’s family objected to welcoming into the family a child whose antecedents were unknown. The girl, now named Tia by the orphanage staff, remained in the orphanage for a couple of years. She was readopted by a middle-class family and its head, a school principal, grew very fond of her. But the rest of the family, especially the large brood of young children in the family, scoffed at her and bullied her. She was unhappy.
 
This might have prompted her, as she grew, to try to find her roots. By persistent search and possibly by bribing someone in the orphanage she eventually uncovered the name of her mother. It took Tia some more time to find the current address of Ria. She wasted little time. As dusk approached one summer, the young girl turned up at Ria’s door.
 
It was a mega-shock for the family. Ria has had no preparation for such an eventuality. Her husband had no notion of the tragic episode in his wife’s history. Their two children, at the epicenter of a family earthquake, simply did not understand its magnitude. The small study room the children used was converted overnight into the girl’s bedroom, where she lived and slept for a week, while the family battled the issue in the living room.
 
Her husband said, “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
 
Ria replied, “Are you sure you would have married me if I had?”
 
To his credit, Bhumen, her husband was an honest man and kept quiet. He knew what the true answer would have been.
 
Ria said, “Believe me, I had often wanted to tell you. It was a burden on my heart I wanted to share with you. I was afraid.”
 
“You have lived with me all these years. You know, I love you. If you were still afraid, I have failed you. I am ashamed. I wish you could have believed me.”
 
Ria replied, “Don’t say that. I believe you. I was young when it happened. I was afraid for years. Maybe my fear became a part of me.”
 
Bhumen then said, “You have nothing to fear. Now you must say this to our children. I know they will understand. Then you have the bigger job of telling your new daughter. It will not be easy, and I will help. But you must tell her that this is her home.”
 
No, it wasn’t easy. It took all of them to adjust to the reality of a new member of the family. Most of all, it was hard for Tia. She had walked into a loving family, and they had accepted her with open arms. A part of her mind kept persisting with troubling questions: Why hadn’t they accepted me earlier? Why did they let me be so unhappy? Why did my mother leave me behind?
 
Ria said to me that she could never talk with her new daughter without these questions edging in some form. All she could do was to love Tia and hope the doubts would slowly dissolve.
 
She had a loving family. She wanted it to be more loving. Every day.

The helicopter circled for a long time among mountains until finally I spotted a break in the range. We swooped down and I saw the little clearing where we could land.
 
Maxine travelled all the time but mostly to big cities and large airports. She was a hardy negotiator when it came to economists and businessmen but was uncomfortable negotiating narrow mountain passes and landing in tiny rural patches. But this was the critical area for the energy project we were talking about, and she would not shrink from the adventure. Her negotiation was with the local government and its specialists; I was just a bureaucrat greasing the wheels of the deal.
 
She asked me to come because she seemed to trust me. I came because I thought it was a good project and I liked her. She had bright eyes and short blonde hair. She wore a navy suit and sported a white scarf. At the last minute I made her change her high heels for practical flat shoes, for the ground might be slushy. I carried my trusty tablet; she carried nothing. Quite a woman: she must have studied through the night all the files I gave her last evening and was carrying the information in her head.
 
The helicopter landed with a mild thud. Sakya, the pilot made a signal asking us to wait. We got out only after the dust had settled. I emerged first and lent my hand to Maxine. She ignored it and hopped out on her own.
 
When the noise subsided, Sakya asked her, “How did you like the ride?” He was proud of his skill and knew not many pilots could have steered a path through those craggy mountains.
 
“Very picturesque,” Maxine said, then added candidly, “but I had my heart in my throat.”
 
This was what I liked about her. She was both tough and vulnerable.

​Maxine who grew up in Saunderstown village in North Kingston of Rhode Island, the daughter of a fisherman who could barely afford to send her to school. She completed college, partly on scholarship and partly by washing dishes in local restaurants. When she got a break in a government agency, she rose meteorically to the top. Now over twenty professionals worked for her in Washington. Somewhere halfway a high-school romance sprang into an April wedding, then wilted in a December divorce.
 
She was earnest and determined and liked to have the facts at her fingertips. We got along well, for, when she asked for the numbers on anything either I gave them to her or said frankly I didn’t have them. I knew it was a fatal mistake with her to fudge or to provide spurious data. She would catch you for sure.
 
The ground was indeed muddy, for it had rained the previous night. Maxine and I had both donned boots, but I hadn’t intended to cover mine with muck up to the gills. But that’s what happened with a determined Maxine covering the entire project area doggedly, end to end, seemingly checking every inch. After an hour of relentless examination, she sighed contentedly, “I think this will do.”
 
Sakya seemed glad to have us back and said quickly, “I am afraid there is report of bad weather coming this way. Quite bad. We better leave quickly.”
 
I had noticed a thick fog gathering and turned to Maxine, “Visibility is getting poorer every minute. Let us make a move.”
 
Maxine took a last look around and took several photographs to aid her memory. Then she said what Sakya and I wanted to hear, “Let’s go.”
 
The helicopter swung into action, but Sakya’s arched brow told me that he didn’t anticipate an easy return. We had to pass through narrow spaces between mountains and make quick turns, but the view started turning murkier every minute. There was no fog when we came, as I was assured by the weather people, and now the fog was getting denser by the second. Maxine sat stony-faced between Sakya and me in the tiny cockpit, quite silent.
 
Then Sakya took another sharp turn and, uncharacteristically, spat an expletive. I could see through the dark fog how close we were to the mountainside, and then, without a warning, I saw Sakya straining suddenly to make another quick turn.
 
All of a sudden, the imperturbable, almost-stern Maxine turned close and grabbed the lapel of my jacket with both hands and shrieked, “Are we all right?”
 
I wasn’t feeling comfortable at all but, seeing her acute discomfort, I suddenly had a strange burst of humor, “We are quite all right, Maxine. Either we will reach home all right, or we will reach paradise – in each other’s arms.”
 
Sakya did as well as his stellar reputation warranted. He piloted steadily and skillfully to land us at the airport in record time, before a terrible storm broke. Maxine and I reached our respective places without a hair out of place. I drove Maxine to her hotel and, just as a downpour started, I reached my own home.
 
We did not quite end in each other’s arms. Maxine poured me a drink as I came into her room and then, after a sip, wordlessly gave me a hug of relief.

It must be a rare person who didn’t lose his heart, or at least a heartbeat or two, while in college. We all pursued somebody, worshipped somebody, admired somebody.
 
Alak went to an extraordinary length.
 
He met Tara on the first day of college. He knew right away she was the right person for him. He went and introduced himself. She was polite to him, no more. She didn’t evince the slightest interest in him. I know this because he told me so himself.
 
It might have deterred a less sturdy soul, not Alak. He kept talking to her at every opportunity. At every college event he kept his eyes open for her. He hovered around her. She could not but be flattered by his attention. But it did not seem to mean much to her. I saw her moving around with other classmates. Clearly, she enjoyed their company, for I saw her with them on several occasions.
 
This seemed to bother Alak little. He seemed content with the little parcels of time Tara spared for him. Occasionally, she deigned to accompany him to a restaurant. On a very rare occasion, Alak breathlessly reported, they went together to the theater. That made him ecstatic.
 
We friends were not lacking in counsel for him. Some advised him to drop her all together. Other suggested that Alak should cool it or at least go out with other women in the class. His reply was that they simply didn’t understand her. She was a highly sociable person, he said, and she simply liked being with other people. The fact that he was rarely among the ‘other people’ she liked to be with either escaped his attention or he thought it did not matter.

​I am modest in estimating my capacity to fathom others and suggested a different tack to Alak. It came up because he did seem a little flustered on some occasion when he hadn’t been able to see Tara for a while or spend some time with her. I said he seemed rather keen on her, while her keenness for him, at least in her observed behavior, appeared somewhat ambiguous. I hesitantly suggested it might not be a bad idea to explore the matter with her. Have a chat with her, I proposed to Alak, and see if you can gain some clarity.
 
He came three days later with happy news. Tara had said that she was not perfect, but she “cared” for him. She had added that she liked others’ company and admitted that some might feel they were being encouraged. She valued Alak’s companionship nonetheless. I did not find his report reassuring, but for him it was clearly as good as he wanted. It would have been useless sharing my misgivings; I kept them to myself.
 
After college I couldn’t be in close touch with Alak, but I kept hearing parallel stories. I heard from Alak and others that he was going steady with Tara, but I also heard from others that they had seen Tara with others. Those looked like dates, said some; others claimed these suggested affairs. I did not know what to think but felt concerned about Alak.
 
Five years later Alak and Tara married. I came from another town to attend the wedding and met many old friends. It was a joyous occasion, and Alak appeared euphoric. He was marrying the girl of his dreams. The only discordant note was when I had a quiet moment with Tara and said, quite innocently, “Tara, you look so pretty and so happy,” and Tara instantly turned somber and said just one word, “Happy!” I didn’t miss the tone of quiet sarcasm, but I didn’t know what it meant.
 
That comment came back to me when I heard three years later that Tara had left Kolkata and gone to work in Pune. Friends said she had left Alak, though it wasn’t clear whether they had divorced. I called Alak and he said they had had ‘difficulties’ but did not elaborate further. I heard rumors that Tara was living in Pune with the head of an engineering startup where she worked. I was not sure whether to credit that or Alak’s claim that he periodically visited Tara.
 
Twelve years later, on a visit to Kolkata, I had dinner and a long discussion with Alak. I asked about Tara. Alak confirmed that Tara was living in Pune with another person, but said, most mysteriously to me, that he visited her from time to time. For what? Wasn’t it time for him to end that nexus and start other relationships? Alak seemed exasperated by my edgy questions. Didn’t I know that he loved Tara? That he had always loved her? He simply had no interest in other women or other relationships.
 
Alak and I talked infrequently on long-distance calls, but I refrained from asking about Tara. I was in town after seven years when I met Alak again. I was waiting in my hotel, expecting to have dinner with Alak and an extended conversation. I was astounded when he turned up with Tara.
 
As Alak and I sat at the table with Tara between us, I said with genuine feeling that I was so happy to see them both – and together. It was then that Tara explained the situation.
 
“I still live in Pune most of the time. The reason is that I have a daughter with my second husband. He is a good man and looks after me and my daughter.
 
“Every other month, I come for a week or two and live with Alak. He has always loved me. His persistence once bored and exasperated me. But I have grown. I know now what I didn’t know before: in a world of fleeting links, it is precious to have someone who cares for me just as I am, with all my warts.”
 
In the flickering candlelight, I was looking at her chiseled oval face framed by undulating dark tresses, a face that had mesmerized Alak through the years. I saw her large eyes moisten, as she said softly, “I need devotion as much as I need romance.”

Stephen, an old friend, called to ask if I would help a friend of his who was about to visit Indonesia. He knew that I had spent some time in Indonesia and thought I could guide a foreigner who knew nothing of the country. Stephen explained that she had a tight schedule and had to start work swiftly on arrival, and any guidance I could give would be useful.
 
We agreed that Stephen would give the person my telephone number and she would call to set up a date.
 
Cynthia – that was the person’s name – called me the next day and we decided to meet the following Saturday. I lived then close to a metro station, and I offered to escort her from the station to my apartment. At the agreed hour, I waited at the metro station. I was taken aback when Cynthia came up the escalator wielding a cane that she brushed left and right to ascertain her position. Cynthia was blind. Nobody had told me that.
 
Cynthia had a gentle radiant face. I greeted her and said that, had I known, I would have come to her place. She seemed surprised and replied that she went to all kinds of places and was happy to come to mine, because the need was hers. But she was at ease when I took her arm and guided her across the street to my apartment.
 
We had coffee and chatted for a long time. She was friendly but very businesslike. She had a number of questions, some closely related to her project on education for people with handicaps, and others, on the country’s people and culture. I answered her as best as I could.
 
I mentioned a useful book I had on Indonesia. Then, realizing her limitation, I was about to say that I did not have it in braille, but she responded immediately that she would like to borrow the book. Though mystified, I readily agreed to lend her the book for as long as she liked.
 
At the end of our chat, I offered to drive her back to her home, but she would not hear of it. She said she was perfectly comfortable taking the metro back to her home.

​Three months later, I heard from Cynthia again. She said her assignment in Indonesia had gone very well and she would like to tell me all about it over dinner. So I drove one pleasant fall evening to her home in Maryland.
 
When I rang the bell, a white-haired man of fifty opened the door. “Manish?” he asked.
 
He asked not because he didn’t know me. Because he couldn’t see me. He was blind.
 
“I am Kenny, Clarissa’s husband,” he said. “You were very helpful to her. I am glad you could come.” Clarissa came up from the kitchen and hugged me. I felt embarrassed. I had done so little for them.
 
It was the neatest living room I had seen. Everything was in its place. So was the adjoining dining room. When I complimented them on it, Kenny said with a smile, “It has to be that way, so that we can find things. Without seeing them.”
 
I understood the significance of that remark as the evening progressed. As we talked, we had some wine. I noticed how carefully the red and white wine bottles were arranged and how the wine glasses were hung upside down next to them within easy reach.
 
When we sat down to dinner, the places were impeccably set, with napkins and silver. The soup for us was in three separate bowls, and the entrée in three separate plates, all kept warm in the oven, ready to be served. At the end came some delicious mousse, already poured in separate dishes and maintained in the refrigerator. It must have taken the couple quite an effort to organize the meal so meticulously, but the result was sheer perfection. I was both pleased and astonished. And supremely grateful.
 
As I was leaving, Clarissa brought out the book I had lent her. I felt comfortable enough by now to express my curiosity. How did she read it? She showed me how. She placed the open book on a scanner that swiftly read the two open pages and transferred it to a computer, which then read aloud the pages.
 
Kenny shook my hand and Clarissa hugged me as I said goodbye. It was late, and lights twinkled from the windows of every home in Bethesda. It felt wonderful to have spent a few hours with people, whom most people would characterize as handicapped, but who to me seemed a model of strength and independence.
 
By a curious coincidence, I am writing this with one eye because the other eye had two recent surgeries, but it seems churlish to talk about such a small thing as I recall the radiant face of Clarissa and her probing cane scanning left and right.

Not all who say, “I will come again,” come around to fulfill the promise. It took me a while to learn that.
 
Father had a lot of friends. And our apartment had an extra room. The combination meant that father was often tempted to invite a friend, or a friend’s friend, to stay with us for a while.
 
We had an Iraqi scholar, a Japanese researcher and an American basketball wizard stay with us for weeks. For me, the most memorable guest was Willard, whom we called Will.
 
Though father brought the guests in, it frequently fell to the family to look after them. Mother would cook for them, and I did the occasional chore.
 
Will, a British student in his teens from Malaysia, had been recommended by one of dad’s overseas friends. He would stay with us a few weeks before returning home. He arrived with a large backpack and a broad smile. We liked him at once.

We particularly liked his genial disposition. He was always smiling, eager to talk with anybody he met. Early in the morning he sauntered into the garden, to talk with the gardener as he worked. I remember seeing him standing on the stairs and talking with the janitor as he cleaned the steps. He was eager to chat with every aunt or uncle who ever visited us and learn their life history. His sunny temperament left a positive impression on all and sundry. He was quite a contrast to the stuffy British colonial officers we were used to.
 
His greatest curiosity was reserved for mother. He was perpetually in the kitchen, asking details of whatever she did, occasionally helping her to chop a vegetable or stir a soup. He wanted to know where she grew up, about her father and mother, and what she loved doing when she was a student.
 
He swiftly became an accepted member of our family. It was difficult to imagine that he was not one of us. Mother particularly liked that he devoured instantly whatever she placed on his plate and said her desserts were the best he had ever tasted. He proudly sported to visitors a shirt she had bought him.
 
Sometimes father took Will to his office to introduce him to his friends and visitors. He normally described his young guest as a charming boy, adventurous enough to live in Malaysia and visit India.
 
Weeks passed, and I had to return to school at the end of summer vacation. Will was still with us. Father arranged for Will to attend the school too, as a visiting student. It wasn’t the practice in the school, but dad served on the school board and he persuaded the board members that it would be a good experience for the regular students as well as for Will.
 
I recall overhearing conversation between my parents after some months that had an undertone of anxiety. They hadn’t heard from Will’s father in a long while.
 
At the end of six months, a tall, elderly English businessman arrived from Kuala Lumpur. Apparently, he was a distant cousin of Will’s father and he was to escort Will to a boarding school in Salisbury, where Will had been granted admission. What about Will’s father, we wondered and were quite confused.
 
The cousin then reluctantly explained that Will’s father was the black sheep of the family and had fallen afoul of the law in England. That is why he had found a job for him in Malaysia and settled the family in Kuala Lumpur. But Will’s father had left the job after a while and started trading in drugs. He was caught and would be in prison for a long time. His wife had left him and, in discussion with her, it was decided to place Will in a boarding school.
 
For me, and for our entire family, the news was like a thunderbolt. Salisbury! Will had an uncle in Bath, miles from Salisbury, and he had met him only twice. The idea of a distant, cold boarding school filled us with foreboding for Will. Father even broached the idea of Will continuing to stay with us for some more months and attending the local school. That idea was anathema for Will’s family. We were told there would be legal issues.
 
I expostulated that Will was perfectly happy with us. Didn’t that amount to anything? Clearly not. It was my first lesson in how adults tend to decide what is good for their children.
 
After angrily raising with father the foolhardy idea of adopting Will, mother calmed down and bought a suitcase for him, in addition to his backpack. She filled it with new clothes, gifts and packages of Indian delicacies Will had enjoyed.
 
The following week Will left for England with his uncle. He wasn’t smiling any longer and had the look of a lamb being led to slaughter. I went with father to the airport. Mother said she couldn’t bear the sight.
 
At the last second, Will hugged mother for a long time, then held my hand and said, “I will come again.”
 
We were to know otherwise.
​