It was long after that year when the remembrance ritual began. It came in somatic bursts, when I was walking, in the middle of work, chopping onions, or in the shower. The smallest part of my brain holds the memory intact: I can still feel as though I am outside the temple, inhaling the aroma of dewy jasmine strands. My mother gets a small portion out of the four-inch diameter to wear in her hair. My father knows I like barahmaasi champas, and always asks the flower-seller for one lone barahmaasi champa and hands it to me. He continues this love language ritual even today.

When I complete dance classes on summer evenings, my mother, as she returns from work; brings me home. On the way, we walk by streets speckled with parijatas, raat-ki-raani, Gulmohars with orange and red flowers, and the evergreens. I remember her voice when she calls my father, slowly ironing out details that we will be home soon, asking when he will be back from the office.

On a June night when the south-westerly monsoon winds bring drizzles to Mahrashtra, my father asks if we must call my grandfather. I immediately agree. My father dials a number in the STD booth in a corner in Chembur, Mumbai, and my grandfather picks up the phone in Veerapanchatram, Erode. The familiar distance between longing and the night sky is wholly ours. Over three decades since, I realize I can slumber listening to my father speak in Tamil.

Sentimentality means you and I are elsewhere, or together, but we were together at one point in time in an exact dimension, and I honour the memory.