My grandmother’s name was Kamala. She was born in a small slice of western India at a time and a place where the gift of learning was not equally bestowed between genders. If my father’s memory serves correct, she was married in her early teens and hardly had the benefit of a fourth-grade education. Nevertheless, she raised six children who became college graduates, replete with advanced degrees.
My aunt’s name was Kamala. My mom describes her as the sweetest sister-in-law one could ever dream of. I never met her because her life was cut short on a highway in Uganda, as…
