My Life as a Spice Sissy

Grub

My Life as a Spice Sissy

Illustration: Akshita Monga

W

hen I was five, my grandad would cry a lot.

“Why is Dadu sad,” I would ask my mother in hushed tones, as tears streamed down his face and he sniffed and panted as he ate. He overheard me and turned toward me with his tongue lolling outside his mouth.

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