I couldn’t face Mummy and Daddy that night – the disappointment in their eyes would have been too much to bear. I stayed up chatting to Nani Mummy until we both fell asleep with the light on; her high-ceilinged bedroom smelt of a mix of calming motia (sambac jasmine) and the newspapers that were strewn across the bed and lodged between the pillows. On one side was a rosewood-framed sofa with an array of mismatched cushions that had lost shape; next to it stood a telephone table with a rotary dial phone. Her bed was two singles pressed together – the mattress was hard, and I could feel the springs in my back. Her cupboards were filled with chiffon saris and smelt of Yardley English Lavender drawer sheets. When being an only child felt stifling, overwhelming, and I wanted to escape the intensity of my parents’ attention, I’d often spend the night with Nani Mummy.
