(Left to Right) My grandfather Salil Chowdhury with my aunt Tulika, his sister Lily with my eldest aunt Aloka, and my grandmother Jyoti Chowdhury with my mother, Lipika. Bombay, Maharashta. Circa 1959 Image and Narrative contributed by Aurina Chatterji, Mumbai / Toronto, Canada Even though he died when I was 12, I never really knew my grandfather, the famous music Director Salil Chowdhury. Bapi Dadu, as we called him, was an infrequent visitor at 16, Hillcrest, Perry Cross Road, Bandra. It was my grandmother, his wife's house, the site of almost daily family congregations. I never wondered why he didn't live in this house. Maybe it was because Bapi still occupied 16, Hill Crest like a benevolent ghost. The walls were plastered with his photographs, posters, awards. His songs drifted lazily from my grandmother's trusty companion, the radio transistor, the sound often muffled by pillows. I remember watching Bapi on Doordarshan, on one occasion talking to Asha Bhosle, on another - in the valorous yet invariably mangled Hindi of Bengalis - talking about Kishore Kumar. I remember numerous videos of him conducting a choir. I remember the twinkle in his eye, his proudly bald head and the way his hair always curled at his nape, begging for a hair cut. One day, in our Bapi-bedecked hall, my older cousin told me in conspiratorial tones that Bapi had another wife and he had other children and that is why he lived in Calcutta and that is why we rarely saw him. I don't remember being particularly affected. I do remember the puzzle pieces rapidly fitting into their places, but the complete picture, to me, was just a piece of delicious…