India, March 18 -- I must have been eight then, living in my grandparents' house under the watchful care of my grandfather, Mr. Rama Murthy, and my grandmother, Kameswari. The house itself seemed to breathe with their presence, its rooms holding stories the way walls hold warmth after a long day. My grandfather was a village school headmaster, but people also came to him for homeopathic remedies. Farmers, neighbours, and strangers trusted him deeply and often visited with small gifts from their fields.

One afternoon, a farmer named Adinarayana arrived carrying the first harvest of brinjals. They were round, tender, and deep purple, still carrying the scent of fresh earth. He offered them to my grandfather with pride. My grandmother took ...