My grandmother and I were good friends. My parents left me with her when they
went to live in the city, and we were constantly together. She used to wake me
up in the morning and get me ready for school. She said her morning prayer in a
monotonous singsong while she bathed and dressed me, in the hope that I would
listen and get to know it by heart; I listened because I loved her voice but
never bothered to learn it. Then she would fetch my wooden slate, which she had
already washed. After a breakfast of a thick, stale chapati with a little
butter and sugar spread on it, we went to school. She carried several stale
chapatis with her for the village dogs.