My grandmother and I were good friends. My parents left me with her when they went to live in the city, and we were constantly together. She used to wake me up in the morning and get me ready for school. She said her morning prayer in a monotonous singsong while she bathed and dressed me, in the hope that I would listen and get to know it by heart; I listened because I loved her voice but never bothered to learn it. Then she would fetch my wooden slate, which she had already washed. After a breakfast of a thick, stale chapati with a little butter and sugar spread on it, we went to school. She carried several stale chapatis with her for the village dogs.