India… so bittersweet. Always has been, but never more so than this time. Important to go back, but so hard. It was all as I remembered it; the brilliant blue heat-hazy skies, the pressure cookers, the singing cars, the autos whizzing, cows crossing, Jessie, at the gate. The bats and the sunsets and the stars. The Bollywood music, the colour, the dust. The kites calling at midday, echoing in the hot air. The bougainvillea, the crickets, the heat of the afternoon. Grandma’s plants, the swing, the photos on the wall.
Only he was missing, his chair empty, the TV, silent.
We miss you, grandpa
