Grandma died during the coronavirus pandemic. Not of Covid-19 but of other causes, accidental and natural, the sort of events, at once calamitous and mundane, that one is increasingly prone to with old age.

She was just a couple of months shy of a majestic 102 years. Due to pandemic restrictions, the funeral was attended by a little over 20 family members. It was sobering to know that I saw her fewer times than usual recently.

Our family had tried to keep away during the pandemic – to ward off the virus that could severely affect both Grandma and my parents who can also claim seniority of age. For the same reason, the last time I saw her, I did not kiss or hug her.

Now, I stand in the living room of the home that belonged to my grandmother, my mother’s mother. I am walking through her place one final time before we close it down. When we enter, this darkened frame, emptied of people, is a husk of its past self.

But in spirit, it is full of life, suffused by the stained-glass glow of childhood memories and animated by the stories I have heard from my mother. At the heart of the home and its…

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