I am often asked, ‘What was it like to be a grandchild of the Ramsays, where horror was my playground?’ My mother used to take us to visit...
I am often asked, ‘What was it like to be a grandchild of the Ramsays, where horror was my playground?’
My mother used to take us to visit my Naana and Naani (grandparents) on Saturdays. My maamas, maamis (maternal uncles and aunts) and cousins lived together at Lamington Road in Bombay. My grandparents would be sitting on their individual beds, which were joined at the head in the narrow room. On seeing me, my grandmother would delightedly greet me with her characteristic hearty laugh and draw me into a warm hug. Then she would untie the knot at the end of her sari to give me some money from her hidden stash. I would bashfully refuse, even though I secretly wanted to grab the notes. She would then squeeze the money in my eager palm. Later, I would jump onto my grandfather’s bed. He would ruffle my hair, planting an affectionate kiss on my cheek. As I grew older, the kiss was replaced by a gentle hug.
With the money my grandmother had given me, I would buy a variety of sweets and wrap a mixture of them in paper. Along with my cousin sister, who was my partner in crime, we would run...
