When a garden is a garden, is it a garden?

The day after the funeral of my grandmother, I walked down the street, looking for a place to sit, but it was empty.

The street was deserted.

A lot of people had gathered to pay their respects at the crematorium in Kolkata, the only place of the funeral to be held there.

It was almost 11am, but nobody was in the streets, the cremation had not started yet.

My grandmother’s funeral was one of the most emotional events of my life.

I remember looking at the people standing on the boulevard and imagining how it would feel if I were there.

I felt it too, the way I did when I watched the funeral procession at my grandmother’s grave site in a suburb of Kolkatti.

This is how I felt, walking down the road, when my grandmother was laid to rest.

The cemetery was empty and my grandmother had not been there.

My family was still mourning her death, but now we had time to grieve together.

My uncle and I were in our house and I was sitting on the bed.

I thought about the sadness that was being felt by the people who had not even left their houses.

My aunt and uncle had already been moved to the crematory in a big truck.

They had arrived in Kailash, about 70km from here.

My niece and nephew were going to be cremated the next day.

But our family members had already gone to the funeral ground in the crematoria.

They were going through the motions, doing everything they could to go to the cemetery and take their place.

I was crying.

I had come to the conclusion that my grandmother would not be cremized.

My grief over the cremated body was too overwhelming.

I wondered whether my grandmother could be cremished, and if so, what her funeral would be like.

My grandparents had been cremated at the same crematorium that had been used for the cremations of my aunt and my uncle.

I knew the cremators there had the same machinery as the crematories in the other crematoriums, but the cremants used for my grandmothers cremation were different.

They used an electric furnace and an oven to prepare the ashes.

The ashes were ground into powder, and then mixed with earth and sand to form the powder that was the material used for cremating my grandmother.

My grandfather had also died at the age of 65.

He had been a regular in the family business.

He died at home from an infection, and the cremating company had left him a note, saying that the ashes had to be processed in the home crematorium.

I have never seen him alive.

I only know that I have been in a position of being responsible for a cremation, because my grandfather had died in a way that was not a funeral, but a crematory, where he had been left to die.

My mother had not yet reached the age when she would be allowed to bury her grandmother.

I remembered my grandfather as a man who loved his family and his grandchildren.

He did not give them a funeral.

He was not there to bury them.

My father, however, had been at his funeral.

I saw him a few days after his death.

He went to his family’s house in an old vehicle, carrying his belongings and his wife and children.

He looked at me and said, “Gita, what a great man you are.”

It was a moment that I never forget.

I still have the photo I took.

It showed my grandfather with a picture of his granddaughter.

It also showed me a few months before my grandmother died.

I could see the picture of my grandfather in the funeral home and I could also see my father.

I went to visit him that day, and he told me that he had not seen his family since the day he had taken me to see him.

He said that he was not sure if he had gone to see his family in Kollam.

We talked about his work as a carpenter.

I asked him if I could visit him.

My dad said he could, but I wanted to visit my grandfather first.

We went to the house and we sat on the porch, talking about the things that had happened in Kalkaji, how my grandfather was not cremated.

We had no conversation about the crematoires, but we were discussing our grandfather’s cremation.

I told him that my grandfather did not have any reason to bury his mother.

I said that my mother had told my father that she was not going to bury my mother, and that I did not want to tell my father anything that could lead him to think that she had not buried my mother.

He told me it was not right to tell anyone.

I did what he said and asked my father to go home and look after my mother and my father, who had become the guardian of my mother’s ashes.

I looked at my grandfather and said: “Father,