Coming from wholesome stock.

At four feet, eleven inches tall, my grandmother is larger than life. But "You know darling," she will tell you, sipping from a cigarette held between impossibly long fingers, "I used to be five feet seven inches tall. And I walked the ramp you know. In London." And then her amber eyes will mist over and her mouth will freeze tentatively like jelly does. And just for a moment, you will wonder if this time it wasn't the third glass of whisky that did it.

Because ever since I can remember, whenever I walked into her Aladdin's Cave-like home, I would find my grandmother dressed in an ornately embroidered caftan with a heavy gold necklace around her neck and a glassful of whisky mixed to match the colour of her eyes placed on her bedside table. If you ask her what it's doing there at eleven in the morning, she would reply, "Darling, I'm eighty five years old. I've earned my li'l picker upper once in while don't you think?"

It was only meticulous upbringing by a manners-obsessed mother that would stop me from saying, "Considering we celebrated your 64th birthday for six years in a row, what would your real age be?"

Because while my friend's had grandmothers who had unbeatable recipes for khaman dhokla and mango pickle, my grandmother had a hundred pairs of shoes and could dance a killer two-step. And told me secrets that could put other grandmothers in jail.

At six: "Go on a diet li'l Itu. Less rice is the key. Men don't like to see women eat."

At eight: "Little one, a smidgen of Vaseline on your eyelids will make your eyes more alluring."

At ten: "Prostitutes are ladies who take money for sex."

At twelve: "You know you must have a little boyfriend. All girls do."

At fourteen: "Don't wear a petticoat under your sari. You must feel the silk against your thigh."

At sixteen: "Your grandfather left me for an old biddy who claims she's a princess. She's true royalty. Of the worms."

At twenty: "Walk tall darling. You are a Peerbhoy. And besides, you don't want anyone to know you're only five-two."

So while other girls were learning how to manage household finances and stretch the rice from their grandmothers, I was learning how to drop my handkerchief and look the correct degree of helpless. I was being tutored on how to turn my toe on the waltz turns. While my friends learnt embroidery, I learnt how to pronounce epitome correctly. While they learnt the art of temperance, I learnt the art of nail polish and wine tasting.

And I will NEVER really be that superwoman I've always wanted to be. Because as my grandmother always says, women don't learn about earning darling. That's simply not their business. And even if you can cook. NEVER let him know.