Nani still lives in the hills, makes her own food and experiments with her spices now and then. After my grandfather passed away, we urged her to stay back in Kolkata. But she would not listen. That's the thing about Nani; she always knew what she wanted. Her old age, husband's death, more medical bills, nothing could change her mind. She went back to her home in Darjeeling. 

I asked her one day, 'Why won't you stay, Nani?' She smiled at me, "As long as that home lives, that bed gets made every night, the kettle is washed every morning, your grandfather lives. I cannot abandon him after all these years. I made my home there, from scratch."

'But weren't you lonely there? Nana must've been at work in the library during the day.'

"No, when he was in the library, I started making sweaters. I'd knit these sweaters every afternoon, taking sips of chai and bites of onion fritters in between. At the end of the month, I gave them away to a local store that sold them to tourists."

'And how did you spend the money?'

"I bought movie tickets for myself and your Nana and surprised him. He would be back from the library, take off his coat, wash his face and sit on the armchair. The old brown one, in our living room in Darjeeling, you remember?"

I couldn't remember, but I nodded.

"He'd sit there and the first thing he asked was, 'How was your day, Monimala?' Just then, I'd walk up to him and say, "Was thinking of going to the movies." I would smile like a child, flash the two tiny tickets and his face would cheer up. The day's weariness would be wiped off from his face at once. When he fell very sick during his last days, I asked him, "Why would you be surprised every time I'd tell you about the tickets? You must've been able to guess after a few times. And your face would glow up, so I knew you weren't pretending to be surprised." He touched my palms and gently said to me, 'Moni, I wasn't pretending. But my face wouldn't glow up for the tickets. I knew you got them beforehand. But when you flashed them before my eyes, your eyes would light up and looking at you then, my heart would be the happiest. That's the secret of the glow.' And now, after all these years, those movie tickets, some torn and some faded, sleep safely inside my almirah. I run my wrinkled palms over them once in a while. You know why, Pakhi? To memorize the touch of those old tickets."

'Memorize?' 

"Well, old people go through strange things sometimes, my child. Our sense of touch diminishes with age and we all lose touch receptors slowly over the course of life. I will, you will, your Maa and Baba, everyone will. When they're old, very old. Don't worry, it's a long time from now," she laughed.

'I never thought I could lose my sense of touch.'

"Sometimes, we think that there are things we can never lose. And then, one day, they're just gone, leaving everything empty. Like your Nana left me all alone for the evening walks. And empty roads don't question your presence. He doesn't ask me to make Kanda Poha anymore. He doesn't comb my hair at night anymore. I still call out from the kitchen, "Come and check if the salt is okay," and it hits me that the house is empty. Empty house, empty armchair, empty plates, empty bed. All I have are movie tickets, that too, torn and faded. We lose things over the years, my child."

'What if I lose you someday, Nani? I don't want to live in a world where you aren't there. I don't think I can...'

Recalling this old conversation, I could strangely recall the smell of mustard and green chillies in Nani's kitchen. Meanwhile, my own palms reeked of sanitizer as my fingers swiped my six-inch screen to dial her number. Three weeks ago, a man from Kolkata sang 'Tera Mujhse Hai Pehle Ka Nata Koi' through a video call to his dying mother in the COVID ward. A girl jumped into the burning pyre of her father because she was not allowed to touch his body after the virus took his life. Touch was a distant memory now and I finally realized the urgency in Nani's palms; trying to grab all that she can. I understood Nani's hunger to remember, I understood her loneliness.

"Good morning, my Pakhi."

'Nani, the lockdown here ends tomorrow. I'm coming home.'

"To Kolkata?"

'No, to Darjeeling. To you. I'll take a short leave from work.'

"Ah, at last! Come soon. What do you want to eat? I'll make some Kanda Poha for you."

'Have you, have you eaten, Nani?'

"I have."

'Have you eaten well?'

"I did. Why? Pakhi, are you crying?"

"I've gotten so busy, and I don't know how you have been. I couldn't even call you for three days. I should have. I'm so sorry, I really, Nani, I…"

"I've eaten well and I am well. Really, Pakhi."

'I don't know. I'm so far away. I'll see you soon and go on evening walks with you. Your roads are never empty. Your house, armchair, plates, bed, nothing is empty, Nani. I'll comb your hair and make your bed. I'll hold you close and you'll sleep warm.'

"I know, my child. Don't cry, I miss you too. You just come home soon, okay?"

When I reached Darjeeling, I made Nani a plate of Kanda Poha and as I squeezed a lemon on it, she gently squeezed my palms. My Nani, my tired Nani, with the hunger of a hundred years, sat at the table. I buried my teary face in her soft cotton saree and asked, 'Nani, was the salt okay?'