I sat at the dining table, my grandmother diagonally across from me that evening. A woman of 70-something, she hated to be alone. She would complain about it a lot when we had to go back to school after mid-term breaks or summer vacations. After I moved to Bombay to study, it was the same thing. That fear was part of her mental illness that consumed her every day. I didn’t notice it enough. I was young and self-absorbed. But that evening – like many others – she opened up about more than her insecurities.
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