“History is written in blood, Mallika.” That’s what my father tells me. I feel the warmth of my hand clasped in his, the creases of his weathered skin reminding me of the multitude of experiences his life contains.
Nani was never one for conversation. She spoke through the slight pursing of her lips, through creases in her eyes, through the rhythmic clicking of her weathered hands grasping knitting needles. I, on the other hand, speak near incessantly. I chatter as I wave hello to her, asking about her flight from Delhi to Budapest, where I moved with my parents a year ago.