India, June 7 -- A slow hum builds in the highways and bylanes of Ballygunge to shake off the blanket of blur that envelopes the skyline. It's 6:30 am in Kolkata-a weekday in November, sometime in 2013. A splinter of sunlight that tricks with hopes of warmth beams through the jasmine plants in our verandah. My grandfather's thick, black hair glimmers to break the illuminated column of dust-specs of nothing land on him like aliens that have established contact with a suitable new planet. He is about 65, and I am 13, and I do not believe him when he claims no hair dyes are involved in making his perfect mane. My untied Reeboks have his entire attention, his long fingers methodically twisting and turning the laces. I still can't tie my shoes...