Memories are not created equal. Some cast a long shadow on our consciousness and continue to stir our soul for years to come. I’ve one such memory from my childhood. Sona Dadi came to live with us when my grandfather passed away. I was seven then. I called her Dadi, which means grandmother, but I really wanted to call her by her first name. So one day I asked her to tell me her name.

She smiled and then blushed. “Do I have a name? I forgot I had a name. It’s been years anyone called me by my real name. My parents named me Sona, thinking that I had a heart made of gold.” From that day on, she became my Sona Dadi.

As my father had a busy government job and my mother had many social commitments, I spent most of my time with Sona Dadi. She was my friend, companion, caregiver, and counselor. My entire life revolved around her.

My school bus stopped in front of our house, and Sona Dadi waited with me each morning for the bus to arrive. When I came back from school, I could see from my window that she was at the door, watching for the bus. As soon as I got off, I rushed toward her, and she rushed toward me, and we met halfway. Then her questions started: What did I learn, whom did I spend my time with, and who was nice to me and who wasn’t.

One day I fell from a makeshift swing in our backyard and hurt my knee. All I needed was a simple bandage, but Sona Dadi took me to a hospital and was anxiety ridden until the doctor showed her the X-ray. I told her she had overreacted.

She got angry with me. “What do you mean? You know if you walk with a limp, no one will marry you.”

That was the first time I heard the word marry and wondered what else I needed in a full functioning state to get married.

Once, we vacationed in a desert town in Rajasthan. There was no activity during the day because of very high outside temperatures. At sunset we went for camel rides in the desert, which Sona Dadi liked. I found them very uncomfortable. She sat behind me, holding me tightly. Tribal girls walked with us, and Sona Dadi gave them money to sing local songs. I didn’t like the songs because they made no sense to me.

“Music doesn’t depend on words to make it enjoyable,” she said. “You can hear a song in any language, and if it is good, you will like it. You will feel refreshed, and your tension will go away.”

Another time, we stayed in a rest house close to a bird sanctuary. Sona Dadi woke me up early every day. “Birds are already there and will not wait for you, my little princess.”

We put on warm clothing though it was not very cold outside. We gathered our binoculars and box cameras and hung them around our necks. They swung as we walked.

Sona Dadi didn’t know much about birds, but she was looking for koel, a member of the cuckoo family that makes fluty calls, and bulbul, also known for being melodious. The two birds appear often in Indian songs and folk tales. We saw lots of parakeets, doves, woodpeckers, kingfishers, swallows, pelicans, mynahs, and cranes but no koel or bulbul. Disappointed, I started to cry.

Sona Dadi reached out to me. “Malti, hush. These birds are there, but they live inside dense forests, so we can’t see them. I promise, one day when you’re very sad, a bulbul or a koel will appear at your bedroom window and will sing to cheer you up.”

During these early morning walks around the lake, Sona Dadi also talked about things that I didn’t fully understand.

“Malti, this world is like the wood that the carpenter works on. There is no beauty in the wooden planks. It is hidden. He cuts the wood into smaller pieces, joins them, polishes them, and makes things that we like. In the same way you deal with the world. Take one small piece at a time. Look at it carefully, and then make something beautiful. This will give you real happiness. If you don’t do this, you will have a lot of problems. You can control only what you create, not something that is given to you.”

None of this made any sense to me, but I couldn’t stop her from talking.

“People say things about hell and heaven, as if they are the next stage of our being. No, absolutely not. It is all here, or it is nowhere. Show full respect to your parents, but don’t be a blind follower, a duckling. Ultimately you are responsible for what happens to you. Learn to take responsibility. If you break something, admit it. No excuses.

“And if you have a real problem, pray to God. He listens, especially to children. Say you want more sugar in your cereal. Just ask Him. If you want a new pencil sharpener, He will give you one. There is no limit to what He can do for you.”

I walked behind her, not paying much attention to what she was saying. I was just looking for the birds. I didn’t have time for this kind of talk.

One day I came back from a birthday party and was surprised to find a lot of activity inside the house. A doctor and a nurse were attending to Sona Dadi. Ma took me to my room and told me, “Sona Dadi is sick, but she is going to be all right. Please don’t bother her now.”

Sona Dadi was taken to the hospital the same evening. I saw her lying on a stretcher. An ambulance with its lights flashing was at our door. She stayed in the hospital for several weeks. Appu and Ma visited her every day, but they didn’t take me with them.

After much begging I was finally given the opportunity to go with them. What I saw shocked me. Sona Dadi had lost her speech. She could stutter, but her words made no sense.

She recognized me and hugged me. I sat by her bed and held her hand. I cried. She looked at me sternly as if telling me to stop. This was the first time I saw someone suffer physically because of illness, and it left a deep impression on me.