Summer of 87
As kids, my brother and I spent our vacations at our ancestral home every summer. Ammama (grandmother) always insisted on picking us up from the railway station so that our ride back home in my Appapan's (grandfather) old Ambassador wouldn't be as bumpy as in a local rickshaw. The summer of 1987 marked my post-high school graduation, a time when our familiar routine took an unexpected turn. As the train pulled into the station, there was no sign of Ammama. Instead, Appapan, clad in his check shirt and mundu (dhoti), greeted us from a distance. Our parents had hinted at Ammama's illness but withheld the details. My curiosity bubbled, and before I could articulate my questions, Appapan broke the somber silence. "She's got Alzheimer's," he disclosed. "I don't know if she'll remember you, but don't worry; she's going to be all right." My Ammama is the most gentle woman I've ever known. She always exuded the scent of sun-dried c
