It was around time 1992-93, when I was 2-3 years old and my grandfather was alive, he passed away in 1994. It may be the only memory of him where I feel his presence but unable to see him; there is no other image of him in my mind other than the painted portrait of him hanging on our wall. 

            We were then living in our village Diksai. Diksai is a small typical Indian village with agriculture as a main profession, people earned as much they needed or they adjusted their needs with the earnings they had but still it was a very nice place to live. Then Diksai had a population of around 300-400 spread in a rectangular fashion with temples located in center, a road connected village to the main road from the cross section in front of temples. If seen from above the road and the village appeared at “T”.  The road extended from the temple to the Tapi River, which is almost 1 to 2 km away from the village, once I was almost drowned in the river when my mother and other women were washing clothes at the bank of the river, I was 8 that time I guess. 
 
            Our home was at the entry of the village after 5 houses, it was made of earth and the teak wood for the reinforcement, levelled 4 steps above the ground. There was a big “ota”, a stage made in front of the door, the floor made using cow dung "gobar", and it had its unique smell and touch to my bare feet. I was walking towards the door from inside the kitchen holding my special empty milk steel glass, which passed down from my brother, sister to me. My grandmother was doing her regular early morning prayers, chants of pray; sound of the bell and incense stick smell filled our home.  
 
            I was running with my tiny steps with a hurry, I crossed the front door to see if my grandfather was milking the cow in the cowshed located across the road opposite to our home. Seeing him milking the cow, I was happy, got down the steps and started running towards the cowshed in the hope to get some milk.