Say It, Play It, Write It

The photograph was taken on the steps of my grandfather's old brick house, on the morning of Pongal, three winters ago — the last Pongal before he came to live with us in the city.

In it, my grandfather sits in the centre in his white veshti, holding me on one knee and my little cousin on the other. His walking stick leans against the wall. We are all squinting into the morning sun, mid-laugh at something my uncle said behind the camera.

I love it because it is the last photo of him in the house he loved. He looks completely himself there — relaxed, in charge, at home — not the quieter man he became in our small flat. When I miss him, I don't look at recent pictures. I look at this one, and I can almost hear the leaf fall in his silent garden.