The Secret Comfort: My Grandmother’s Dress, Buried With Her

I still remember the scent of mothballs and old rose petals, a fragrance that clung to the back of Nani’s almirah, a scent that became intertwined with my deepest, most forbidden secret. Most of my teenage years were spent living with my Nani and Amma in a modest Delhi apartment. I was a chubby boy, grappling with the awkwardness of my growing body, complete with a noticeable gynecomastia that made me dread changing rooms. But in the quiet solitude of our home, when Amma was at work and Nani was lost in her afternoon nap, I found a different kind of solace.

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