Nanu was the first to do everything for me; the first to touch a spoonful of honey to my lips to make me sweet-tempered. She was the first to bathe me (in warm water, with an added drop of glycerine and coconut oil), and the first to dress me in a soft, pink, muslin dress with a tiny chain-stitched flower and bird hand-embroidered on the bodice.

At several months old, when my hair was due to be shaved, Nanu was the one who first touched my head so gently with the blade (before passing it over to the much better-practiced nafith); when my little curls re-appeared, she was the one that would encourage their formation with a drop or two of her precious joba-kushom oil. And when the time came to satisfy my texture-curious lips and tongue, it was Nanu who prepared the milky firni for me, and Nanu who persuaded me to take my first taste of this strange new substance.

Of course, I don't really have memories of Nanu from back then - my family and I went away to London when I was still a baby. Still, all these years later my mother and aunt are wonderful at reminiscing about those days, and always remind me of the loving things that Nanu did.

As a young child over here in England, I hadn't really been aware of who Nanu was. Oh, I'd heard of her: I was a fussy eater, and recall that my mother would persuade me to eat my food by rolling the rice onto small balls and telling me that these were 'Nanu's dims and Dadu's dims'. Who were these strange people that my mother always referred to? I couldn't really picture them (though I must confess that for a little while I had them confused with a picture of hathi-matth-tim, for didn't the illustration in my nursery rhyme book show how they 'mathe pare dim?!')

During our early childhood, thoughts of our nanu hardly entered our lives. I knew that now-and-again little blue aerogrammes would be placed in my mum's hands that would fill my mum with joy. The address written on the front and back was in a determined but shaky hand, the writing was like mine, not quite staying on the line; on every aerogramme, the phrase 'London, UK' was always written as 'LondonUK', as if someone had painstakingly copied every detail of it from the same carelessly written source. If I looked inside these aerogrammes, even when I was old enough to read (English), they were always filled with hieroglyphics that only my parents could read. Of course, I now know these hieroglyphics were just Bangla! But to me, in those days, the hieroglyphics were magical - for they had the power to make my mother laugh, cry or smile, all in the space of a few minutes.

As we grew up, every new year we would line up by the telephone while my dad booked the trunk call back home -- then we'd wait for what seemed like an eternity for the operator to call us back and tell us we had got a line. And then we would be pushed forward to mechanically repeat: 'Nanu, Apne kemon achen? Amra balo achi. Ami class (and here we would insert a relevant year)-te portesi. Nana-bhai ke salaam diben. Dua korben'. A lady would twitter away on the other end of the line, but the line was never very good and our Bangla not quite up to deciphering the stream of unfamiliar words and phrases.

So, as I was saying, I first laid eyes on Nanu at Dhaka airport when I was seven. She was this tiny, kohl-eyed lady with shupari-coloured red lips, salt-and pepper hair, and a slightly wrinkly face; she wore a very pale, freshly starched and ironed yellow cotton sari with a tiny green border, and delicate open-toed sandals. When I first saw her, her hands were eagerly pressed up against the security glass and she had a broad smile on her face. And then tears streamed down her eyes as she bent down and held us to her faintly-jasmine-scented chest with gentle force, as if she would never let us go again. I guess, at the time, and in the hustle and bustle of the airport crowds, we weren't too worried about being so snug up against her protective sari.

At home she got the maids to bring some ice cold water and, soaking the end of her sari in the water, she bathed our heat-drenched foreheads. Then, for the rest of our stay, she did what I'm convinced all nanus do all the time. She fed and watered us. Her speciality was a fuchsia pink, rose-scented syrup drink that tasted of molten Turkish delight. And to accompany this there would be a never-ending stream of nimkis, mango slices, pawpaw cubes, samosas, shingoras and badaams. All eagerly received, of course!

Town Nanu was immensely both indulgent and protective of us. But it was only when we went to the village home that we got the full onslaught of Nanu's 'Display of Love-Through-Food'. From huge, mysterious, greenish-glass bottles, some in the kitchen, some behind the almirah, some locked away in the display case, some floating in a bowl of ice, she would bring out an endless feast. There would be narikelis: rolled up little balls of puffed rice and moist coconut, mixed with sweet-smelling molasses. Or freshly made jelabis, twisted and turned into spirals of pure orange-coloured delight (these were the days before the advent of the food-colouring police, who have caused modern jelabis to look poor, insipid copies of those royal delights). Sometimes a sticky piece of pineapple or mango murrogba would be placed in my willing, greedy hands.

We used to sit and make things with Nanu. I spent days folding little scraps of fabric from Nanu's dress-making box into triangles, all to be sewn together, like little leaves, into a circular tablecloth. At other times we would sit and weave strips of palm leaves into tiny mats for the table or floor. Sometimes Nanu would help us cut these into circles, mount them on a piece of cane with strips of fabric, add a slice of hollowed bamboo at the bottom, and make our own little cooling device -- the hand-held pankha.

My Nanu wasn't without her own little peculiarities. I'm sure, if you think about it, your nanu had ones too. Nanu never touched money. That's not to say she never handled money; it's just that if she did, she always did so with the corner of her sari or some other piece of fabric. The notes were held at arm's length with some distaste. Coins were always placed on a table -- never directly into someone's hands.

Nanu never used to make her own phone calls. She would call you over and you would have to dial the numbers. (I'm ashamed to say only recently did it dawn on me that the reason Nanu didn't make calls herself was not because of some technophobia; it was, of course, because she didn't know English numbers). The funniest thing was, once the call was made, Nanu would talk while covering her mouth with the end of her (multi-functional) sari - lest the person that she was talking saw her slightly wonky front tooth up close!

Over the years Nanu's affection for us never faltered. On each trip back we'd receive the same, firm hug and we'd be given something that she'd bought for us while we were away. Often it was a new outfit, sometimes it was delicate glass bangles, a handbag or a pretty pair of sandals. When I turned eighteen -- and had my much--belated akika -- she presented me with beautiful, long, nai-rathan earrings. As she handed them over to me, she laughingly gurgled to herself, again covering her face with her sari. 'You can wear these when you're married', she chuckled! On every visit since then a new item of jewellery was added to my ever-increasing treasure chest.

The years passed and with each visit we noticed how Nanu seemed to be getting frailer, even smaller (though was that because we were getting taller?). More wrinkles had formed on her face, her hair got greyer. After Nana passed away we went back to find her in starched white, bare of all jewellery except a thin bangle. But her jolly soul had lost none of its zest for life.

We learnt about Nanu's life as a child. Her grandfather had been a famous and wealthy poet, as had been her father. She had been brought up in a life of luxury, surrounded by laughter and music, and adored by four younger brothers. Getting married to my Nana-bhai and moving away to the town house from all the fun and frolics of the big city had been quite a change for her. My Nana-bhai, though a kindly man, was orphaned when young and led an austere, quiet life, part in the town, the rest in the village home. The women in the town were fiercely protective of Nanu, and those in the village wouldn't leave her side. They entertained her with songs and dances all of their own, and she built close attachments with them all -- always asking and caring about their life and troubles, keeping up-to-date with births, marriages and deaths in their families.

Nanu's knowledge of such matters never failed to astonish me. When it came to talking about our own relations, Nanu also had an encyclopaedic knowledge. Like all Deshis, we were all related to one another in many ways, but somehow Nanu kept abreast of all of that -- keeping in her head what I would need a complex spreadsheet to keep up with. Even when her eyesight was failing, as soon as someone new was introduced to her she would amaze them (and us) by rubbing her eyes, squinting, and then exclaiming: 'Your so-and-so's boy or girl, aren't you?'

Nanu may have looked mild and gentle, but as is often found in ladies of her generation she had gritty determination, supreme inner strength and quite an iron will. I will never forget one night when we were woken up to be told that Nanu was unwell. We rushed to her bedside to see her starting to fade away in front of us all. Her pulse had gone, she didn't breathe. In panic we tried to resuscitate her and, by some miracle, she revived. Elated to have her back but concerned for her heath, we wanted to take her to the clinic. But Nanu, like others of her generation, had a morbid fear of hospitals. 'No, no, I will never go!' she screamed at us. And somehow, despite having only just escaped the jaws of death, she managed to physically fight us off -- four tall, healthy, fit adults!

Three years ago I saw my nanu for the last time. The nanu of fun, mischief and merrymaking had gone; the sparkle had gone from her eyes. On a visit to the village home -- a visit that she had enjoyed immensely -- she had fallen and irreparably broken her leg. She was forced to lie on the bed night and day, in pain and totally reliant on others. Her frail heart was not so strong, so the doctors couldn't operate to fix her up. It was heartbreaking to see her like that. How much a life alters before your eyes.

Later that same year Nanu passed away. Her death has left a whole in our home and in our heart. But, you know what? Her happy laughter hasn't left us. I still hear it each time I look at my earrings, every time I look at her photo, whenever I sit to sew or make something. I even recall Nanu's smiling face at unexpected moments. So today, as I wandered through the Indian aisles of the supermarket doing my weekly shopping, I heard Nanu giggle again as I found they were selling little bottles of rose-flavoured pink syrup. Just like my nanu's.

Julie Reza is a doctor in the UK.