That banyan tree still stands tall, its large canopy sprawling over my grandfather's farm, right in front of his palatial house, inherited from one generation to another. To be precise, inherited by the sons of the family from one generation to another. The daughters don't really inherit anything except the responsibility of being obedient and dutiful progeny, expected to marry into respectable families, give birth to healthy male heirs, take care of their parents, and be good sisters by giving up their share in their own father's property. I just gave away the recipe for brewing a perfect daughter in an imperfect society that survives on her sacrifice, yet mocks her daily.

To begin with, I visited mygrandfather's palatial house after fifteen years. I couldn't bring myself to visit the place where I learned to walk, talk, play, and throw unabashed tantrums at my grandmother after she passed away. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Every time I thought of the house that bore witness to my beautiful childhood, bereft of the one woman who made it a home truly in word and spirit, I felt I would choke on my own tears.

So here I was, fifteen years after my grandmother's death, without any invitation and without any reason. One day, I just woke up and felt in my bones that this self-inflicted exile should end. Not that anybody was waiting for me there, but still, it should end. The woman who had waited for me eagerly at the front door was long gone, and so were all the relationships attached to her. When the root snaps, the branches have no reason to remain bound to each other.

As I stepped out of the car, I was met with a familiar burst of air—not a smell, just the soothing brush of familiar air. A warm feeling crept inside me, yet it felt unknown, though honest. I pulled myself out of my whimsical train of thought and gathered the not-so-needed courage to go inside. What worse could happen? My grandmother couldn't die twice, right? Honestly, if people could die and take away all the memories attached to them, life would become easier. At least breathing would.

I gave the front door a slight push and went inside. Nobody really stays here anymore. Nobody really did, even when my grandmother was alive. She loved this house from the day she married my grandfather and died loving it, long after my grandfather was gone.

As I stepped inside, I saw Megha sitting on a charpoy in the balcony, weaving a basket. Megha was my late grandmother's most trusted house-help. She greeted me mechanically. I don't blame her; I had not maintained contact with her for a long time. She told me she came here often to clean the house, just as she had when my grandmother was alive.

We took a walk around the house and reminisced about the good old days. At the veranda adjoining the kitchen stood a small wooden cabinet where my grandmother would keep homemade butter. I opened the cabinet and, miraculously, found a pot full of butter. Megha told me that Putli Kaaki had made it in anticipation of a relative visiting soon.

Putli Kaaki, my grandmother's closest confidante in the entire village, had been an integral part of my childhood. She taught me how to braid my hair, fed me with her own hands, and saved me from my mother's wrath whenever I performed poorly in mathematics at school. I was eager to meet her, but Megha told me that she usually visited the house in the evening, and I had to leave before then. I couldn't stay there—not without my grandmother.

As I went up to the terrace and stood there in silence, inhaling the air that still felt like a stranger, yet honest and pure, Megha came there with Kritika and Shobha, the girls I had played with as a child. After a few moments of awkwardness, we were little girls again, laughing over stupid jokes and talking without a filter, as though not a single day had passed since we had last met.

I told them about my achievements, and they told me about their husbands and children. Unlike me, Megha, Shobha, and Kritika had not been given the opportunity to study or build careers. They were married off at the age of eighteen, like most girls in the village. Even though I had received a better education than they had, I always felt that no friend of mine in any glittering city could ever match the friendship I shared with these girls in a tiny village.

I relived every memory of my childhood through my mind's eye. I sat wherever my grandmother would sit, walked every step she had walked, saw every nook and corner of the house, touched every wall, and just when I was about to break into tears, I felt a gentle touch on my back.

It was Putli Kaaki.

She had come to meet me after hearing from Megha that I was finally there after fifteen long years. The moment I saw her, my deeply entrenched emotions came rushing to the surface. We cried over a time long gone, held each other, and silently forgave each other for being distant.

We all sat together and spoke our hearts out. The conversation went on till late evening. Finally, when my conscience was clear, when I could forgive myself for missing my grandmother's funeral, when I could finally let go of the anger I had carried since her passing, and for not visiting the house I had loved for the last fifteen years, I decided it was time to leave and head back to the city.

The moment I spoke of leaving, I noticed a sudden change in the expressions of Putli Kaaki and my three friends. Putli Kaaki tried her best to change my mind, but I promised her that I would be back soon.

As soon as I tried to switch on the ignition of my car, it malfunctioned. I was flabbergasted and caught sight of Putli Kaaki smiling in the rear-view mirror. A chill ran down my spine.

She walked towards my car and whispered through the half-rolled window,

"So, that's how you died."

Yes, I was dead.

And so were all the people in this story.

Putli Kaaki died of a heart attack just a few days after my grandmother passed away. The two best friends couldn't fathom a moment without each other.

Megha died after accidentally getting electrocuted in her house while weaving baskets.

Kritika died while undergoing a botched abortion because her in-laws wanted a male child after the birth of two daughters.

Shobha died when her drunk husband set her on fire over a dowry demand.

I did not attend their funerals.

I did not speak about them or my grandmother to anyone.

I kept wallowing in my own grief and sorrow, yet remained stoic to the outside world.

And yet, here I was, in the same house where I had spent my entire childhood and adolescence, immediately after meeting with an accident nearly a thousand miles away.

You can train your heart to forget.

You can train your mind to adjust.

But how do you tame your soul?

For the soul is free and unbound, and it shall always return to what it has loved the most.

Putli Kaaki gently caressed my hair through the half-rolled window and said,

"Let's go and meet her. She has been waiting for you for the last fifteen years."

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