Ira inhales the air in her grandmother’s room like someone who wants to carry and retain precious remnants . The same air that her grandmother had inhaled and was surrounded with till her last breath . Each article in the unelaborate room had a pronounced touch of her presence . Her grandmother’s dresses were neatly folded in the cupboard , her nebulizer and oxygen cylinder still intact by the bed side – the same, dear , favourite bed where Ira had spent countless afternoons, listening to her grandmother’s huge treasury of mythological tales , sheltered in her affectionate embrace. Her grandmother’s music diary with handwritten lyrics of Tagore’s songs , the begrimed stack of books that Ira had brought along from the city , the spectacle that helped her to see the world better, including her own precious Ira- nothing had changed , except for her cherished physical presence. The deserted harmonium in one unacknowledged corner of the room fills Ira with the many indelible songs , her grandmother had taught her , the genesis of her love for music. In that sacred room ,Ira and her grandmother would share secrets, make quiet plans, savour the extra cotton candies and ice pops, making age group appear like a nullity . In that precious room , her grandmother had shown Ira the exquisitely carved wooden jewellery box . Ira had seen her grandmother smell the box , just like Ira was trying to smell her grandmother’s room now . The smell that carries something invaluable , stirs up distant precious memories. Ira’s grandmother had received the wooden treasure chest of love from her own mother . She had told Ira “Its all yours.”.Ira carefully takes out the safely preserved wooden jewellery box from the cupboard and caresses it as though it were a person , amidst tears of love and echoes of mellow farewell songs.