Ba, my maternal grandma, had a Buddha. She must have noticed that I often looked at him. One day when we were visiting she gathered all us, me, my mom and dad. We sat in a circle on a carpet on the living room floor. In the middle was Buddha. Ba carefully picked Buddha up and washed him. She did it attentively and lovingly, as if he were a baby, baby Buddha. She said or sang something, maybe mantras. She dried him. And then she handed him to me.