The monsoon rains had come down, washing the world and bringing new life. From the trees, a hidden coucal sounded its deep-throated call. The blood red hibiscus blossoms looked like scattered rubies in the distance. Everything was bursting with energy and pulsing with hidden life, as if the world itself had been reborn. Everything, that is, except me.

I remember nothing of the car ride to the bus stop. I stared out of the window, looking at everything and seeing nothing. From time to time my mother would squeeze my hand and ask me something. Was I alright? Was I hungry? Did I want a drink of water?  The bus stop was crowded with beggars, street hawkers and labourers all going about their everyday lives. I followed my parents in a daze. The bus smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke mixed with the heady smell of incense. I sat in the front while my parents took the seat behind me.

 Resting my head on the cool window pane I felt the bus lurch forward and start its one day journey across the country. I was travelling all the way from Colombo in the west to Ampara in the east to say goodbye to Grandpa. When my grandfather went on that epic journey in search of heaven, no one expected it. True, he was old. But he was also as hale and hearty as any man half his age. I remember how when I was a little, he taught me to fly. He would pick me up and toss me into the air without so much as breaking a sweat while my parents used to puff and pant and say I was getting to big to be carried. And when he threw me, instead of falling down, like I thought I would, I flew. I know, because I could feel the wind in my hair and the heat of the sun on my face and see nothing but the wide empty sky. I couldn’t fly for long. I always came down to earth in seconds. But then as the world goes, all good things are gone too soon. Like Grandpa.

The bus rumbled on. I didn’t eat, I didn’t speak, I didn’t cry. I stared out of the window, watching the landscape change from the congested roads of the city to the green and yellow fields of the country. Around mid day, the bus made a stop to pick up more passengers. A little boy and his father were among them. The boy scrambled into the seat next to me. He was very red in the face and clutched a book in his pudgy hands. Dalambu pancha it said across the cover. After about thirty minutes of fidgeting and rustling, I felt a meek tap on my shoulder. He held out a packet of Tipi Tip.

“Take one,” he said in Sinhala. I shook my head but thanked him all the same. My answer didn’t seem to please him however. The packet rustled in my face. “Take one,” he said again. I sighed and took a pale yellow star. The boy smiled happily.

 “Ammi said sharing is good,” he explained. I nodded.

“Where are you going?”

“Ampara.” That seemed to excite him.

“I’m going there too! To see Ammi.”

“Oh,” I said sadly, “I’m going to see my- my grandfather.”

“What’s he like, your grandfather?” the boy asked. For the first time, I really looked at the person next to me. He could not have been more than eight or nine, with a friendly face and untidy hair. Maybe it was the fact that he was a child and unlike grownups, he wouldn’t judge me. He wouldn’t tell me that I never really learned to fly. So I told him all about my grandfather; how he used to take me for walks along the paddy fields; how he could make the most delicious murukku in the world; how he laughed; how he told me stories; how he lived; how he loved. In turn, the little boy told me all about his mother; how she insisted on sharing; how she didn’t like when he blew spit bubbles; how she didn’t like mango achcharu.

“I would like to meet your grandfather,” he said. “He sounds nice. And I want to taste his murukku. I love murukku.”

“You can’t,” I said in a choked voice. “He’s dead.”

The boy looked up at me. He crunched a yellow star. “Ammi’s dead too.”

I stared at him. “But you said you were going to see her. You said she told you to share and – and …”

He didn’t seem to understand my confusion. “We used to live in Amapara. That’s where Ammi died. Then Thaththi and I came to Colombo, but we haven’t forgotten Ammi. We go to see her every Poya day.” He crushed the empty packet and stuffed it into his pocket. “Thaththi says that I should never say Ammi is not here. He says that if I’m here and he’s here, then she’s here too. We still love Ammi even though she is dead. You can love dead people, can’t you?” I swallowed and turned away so that he wouldn’t see my tears.

 “Yes,” I said. “We can.”

I never saw that little boy again. But I will never forget him. In that journey of one day, he taught me what most people take a lifetime to learn. He taught me that love is very powerful. It took me some time to start living again, but instead of seeing empty places where Grandpa should be, I found him in more  places than I could count – the letters he had written to me when I was learning to read, the worn old slippers that sat on the shoe rack undisturbed, the smell of murukku frying. In time I came to realize the wisdom in the little boy’s words: Grandpa may be gone but as long as I was living he was too.