A lifetime of comings and goings

I've been on both sides of this ritual my whole life. As a child I watched my grandmother press a red teeka onto a leaving guest's forehead, tuck a few grains of rice over it, and fold a dry coconut into their hands. And I watched the guests, in turn, slip a coin or two to us children waiting at the gate. I didn't understand any of it then. I only knew it felt like love.

Years later, away in distant cities and far-off countries, I would arrive at someone's home empty-handed and feel the lack of it — that quiet grammar of coming and going the hills had taught me without ever once spelling it out. Bring something. Be fed. Be blessed. Give a little back. It is older than any of us, and it asks for nothing but your presence.

When we finally opened this home, the question of money never really arose. How do you put a price on something my grandmother gave away for free, every single day of her life? So we don't. We keep the ritual instead — the same teeka, the same rice, the same coconut, the same blessing for the road. It is the only currency these hills have ever trusted, and I hope my children keep it long after I'm gone.