I loved your endless stories and gossips most of all, how you had the latest news of the entire extended family on your finger tips.
I idolised the fact that you held on to your job till your retirement, and I still remember that one day you had taken a bag of makhana from your famous always locked cupboard and given to us.
I remember the stories you told us and I will never forget that you told me never to listen or read or tell a story about gods while eating (not that I follow it, but I remember and that's the point).
I have saved your measured recipe of thekua and pedakia that you had told me on the phone.
I remember that all the ladies of the house were always comfortable getting decked up in your and Nana's room during a wedding or a party and the window in your room was the vantage point for all the children in the house.
And somehow at any given point there would be four of us fitted in that tiny space.
I want to remember the good times. I want to remember you as healthy and happy and not frail and failing.
Yes it hurts but one day we had to face this. You kept your dignity intact as much as possible.
I guess the whole of last year, you managed to meet all of us or at least most of us and in a way I am glad I saw you in good health and in my mind when I say my goodbye to you, I remember you doing your own things.
Perhaps I will never reconcile to the fact that you are gone. Because we don't stay together. That way it makes it more bearable.
And the best part? You know, you had four generations around you when you passed on. All your children were around you. Plus grand kids and even a great grand kid thrown in the mix.
Isn't that the best way to go? Doesn't it make for a good story? Mind it, you will have one big story to tell wherever you have gone to.