Srinagar, Nov. 3 -- When I cupped my hands, moaj, my grandmother, would place a handful of shirin in them.

I would bring my small palms together near my chin, close my eyes, and wait. It always turned out to be her. Still, I liked to believe that someone up there in the blue sky dropped sweetness into my tender palms.

Moaj would laugh and say, "Athi zii gand, te mang parwardigaras." Learn to ask from the Creator.

I knew how to cup my hands, but I didn't know what to ask for.

When she was dying, I cupped my hands again. Others around her bed were doing it, whispering words I couldn't understand. I moved my lips too, pretending I knew what to say. The sky outside was dull, the air heavy.

When moaj left, I blamed myself. I thought m...