The year Dadi died, monsoon came early. Days of incessant rain, nights with loud thunderstorm. And when there was no rain, my friend Mira and I sang rain songs and floated paper boats in the puddle.

We were having a lot of fun, but Dadi ruined it. She fell so ill that everyone thought she would die.

I kept a death-bed vigil myself. I wanted to find the precise moment when Dadi and death would meet face to face.

It proved to be a long wait. I wanted to give up but then, death finally crept into Dadi's room.

She complained about the tightness in her chest. Her voice got hoarse. Her complexion turned pale and features went crooked. Her stomach swelled like a fat balloon. There were tiny insects crawling on her body, but she did not care one whit.

The regular smell of coriander and cold cream around her was gone. The whole place reeked of medicine, urine and sweat. I had no idea death would smell so bad.

My parents surrounded Dadi like they do in the game of kabaddi where the players encircle a rival player so that he cannot go back to his place. Baba recited the Holy Book loudly while Ma started weeping. Dadi muttered something and then closed her eyes. My father checked her pulse and shook his head.

*

The death rituals proved to be a lot of fun, and I kind of forgot Dadi. But after a week, I started missing her. I remembered how Dadi, a very old and wrinkled woman, used to lie on a cot in the courtyard under a banyan tree where I played hopscotch! Whenever I looked at her, she greeted me with a toothless grin.

I remembered how I sat beside her and talked about serious issues of life: should I remain friends with Mira or not? Why did God give me a brother when I specifically asked for a sister?

Dadi always listened intently but she got distracted soon and talked about her husband who had died many years ago and her childhood days.

*

I often go to Dadi's room now. Today when I sat on Dadi's bed, my cat Mini came to sit by me. She seemed sad too. She mewed. She blinked. And she smelt like coriander and cold cream.

I suddenly felt very happy. Dadi has kept her word. She once said that she would never leave her home.

Marzia Rahman is a writer and translator based in Dhaka.