"Can you bring out the albums?"

This wasn't a new request, and certainly one that forty-seven year old Malati was going to listen to. Her gentle mother-in-law was old. Old and fragile. Close to ninety years of age, and unable to walk down a flight of stairs unsupported.

She had survived a lot of things in her long life, sure. A husband. Two sons. A daughter. She had survived a lot of deaths, but she couldn't take the photographs again. Ninety-year-old Arati Devi would pore over old, faded photographs, hands shaking and eyes misting, and then she would take to her bed for weeks in depression.

Oh, Malati knew, alright. As Arati Devi's primary caregiver, she knew exactly how much sadness the old lady bore in her heart. Mother to six children, three of them dead and the other three not really interested, Malati had to take care of her. Herself childless, she did it gladly, for old Arati Devi had never once questioned her barrenness. Her husband, Arati Devi's youngest son, lived in the city.

"Working", was his excuse to never come and see them. Malati knew he was carrying on with someone else, probably had another wife who bore him the sons he so coveted, but she didn't really care. Arati Devi's presence gave her protection from all the talk in the village, and she did all she could to prolong her life, if that meant that people didn't talk about her.

The only regular visitor was Prabhu-bhai, the widower of Arati Devi's daughter. They were close in age, Malati knew. Prabhu-bhai, or more properly Prabhu uncle was in his early eighties. He came thrice a week from his house in the town nearby, and talked about everything to Malati. Malati found it funny; he came to visit Arati Devi, but he never really talked to her. Arati Devi, was surprisingly coy when he was around.

"He's my first son-in-law" was the old lady's reason, "We treat our sons-in-law with respect."

Never mind that he had been the son-in-law for close to sixty years, and that his wife had been dead for close to twenty of them. He still came religiously to visit, to take care of his ailing mother-in-law.

"I'll look for them, Ma" Malati spoke softly, shutting the doors of the cupboard and making to the kitchen. What she couldn't tell the old lady was that she had been expressly ordered by the second daughter, the rich Mrs. Padmaja that she should never ever give the old lady those photographs.

"She will get sick" Mrs. Padmaja had intoned, "Who will look after her then? You think we have the time?"

When do you ever have the time? Malati had fumed, I'm the only one who cares, you just come here once a year, complain about the infrastructure and the heat and throw money on my face, comment on my barrenness and lack of a husband and leave.

But she had had the sense to not say anything. You do not bite the hand that feeds you, literally.

"I really want to see them" the old lady spoke again, her voice weaker.

Lately, she had been insisting more and more, and Malati was tormented. Oh, she would get sick, alright, but after all, those albums held her memories. Was she right in keeping the lady away from her own memories?

What was a life without memories? Was she not taking away the old lady's very life by not letting her live through her memories?

The calling-bell rang, breaking her inner philosophical monologue. She draped the saree on her head and hurried to the main door, wondering who it could be? It was four in the afternoon, and nobody was expected till seven, when the earliest social calls began. It was so damningly hot, how could anyone move about till the sun sank below the ocean?

Her jaw fell open to see Prabhu uncle outside.

"Uncle, what are you doing outside in this heat?" she gaped, "Come in...come in!"

"My stupid daughter came back!" he lamented as she stepped in and took off his shoes.

"You go ahead and sit with Amma, I'll bring some cool water and come." She directed him as she hurried to the kitchen, biting back a smile.

She knew how much Prabhu uncle loved his daughter, and yet resented her visits. It was for a very simple reason – Shruti always wanted to renovate his house, and inexplicably, he was always dead against it. His daughter was as hot-tempered as him, which inevitably led to fights. He always walked out of his house and sought asylum with his mother-in-law, knowing that his daughter will never fight in front of her grandma.

Ingenious, really.

Malati never understood why he fought though. Shruti was rich, and she would probably renovate the whole place with her own money. She would also employ the labour and oversee everything so that Prabhu uncle didn't even need to lift a finger.

" – and again with the renovation! This time she wants to paint the house that dead beige colour!" she caught Prabhu uncle's voice as she neared the room.

"Why don't you?" Arati Devi tried to reason.

Silence reigned supreme for a few moments as Malati hid behind the wall and strained to hear the reason.

"Asmita chose that light green." Prabhu uncle's voice sounded strained.

Breath caught in Malati's throat. Asmita...Asmi didi was Prabhu uncle's wife...Arati Devi's daughter...gone twenty years ago.

"You tell me, how can I let the girl just march in and change it?" Prabhu uncle fumed, "She doesn't understand anything! All she wants is a clean house, a new house! She hasn't lived in this house for close to thirty years! Does she remember anything? Does she care at all?"

"The memories are nice, Prabhu-ji" Arati Devi's voice was faint.

"At our age, do you really expect us to go out and 'enjoy'?" Prabhu uncle continued ranting nevertheless, "We have to live in our past, and what's more, I want to live with my memories! That color doesn't make me sad, it makes me glad Asmi was with me...for all those years...my daughter is so stupid!"

Malati closed her eyes, furious at herself. Her eyes were burning with unshed tears, and she knew that she couldn't enter the room like this. She took a few moments to stabilise herself, pasted a smile on her face and walked in.

"Water, uncle" she offered him a glass, "Amma, do you need anything?"

Amma didn't hear her the first time. When she repeated the question, Amma barely turned her head to her, and her eyes held torment.

"Malati...the albums...?"

"Amma...I'll look for it..." she managed a tiny smile and hurried out. She had barely made it out when she heard Prabhu uncle's voice again.

"These kids" Prabhu uncle sounded dejected, "Why is everyone so scared of remembering?"

"I don't know" Arati Devi's voice was fainter, "When Padmaja came...she wanted to break apart a part of the house and erect a newer one...I told her...do you remember how your father made it? How many meals he skipped to save up to make a room on the terrace for you and your sister? She said...will you always live in the past? Live in the present, she commanded me...she will understand when it is her time...she will understand that at one stage, we can only live in our memories and wait till God reaches down..."

"Arre Amma" Prabhu uncle sounded scandalized, "I didn't mean it like that! Look, she got you an air conditioner in this heat! She also-"

"Don't, Prabhu-ji!" Amma's voice was shaking, and she sounded furious, something Malati hadn't seen...in forever, "I don't care for the air conditioner! I want to see what my children looked like when they were kids! How Asmi looked, with her ponytails...how Shruti looked...I'm forgetting the faces, Prabhu-ji!...I'm forgetting them!"

"Amma...I'll ask Shruti to come with her kids and come see you" Prabhu uncle tried to reason, to calm down Arati Devi.

A stunned Malati felt moisture on her cheeks, and was shaken out of her reverie to realise that she was crying silently.

"I've been a housewife all my life, Prabhu-ji" Amma's voice was faint again, "I have nothing to show for such a long life, save for my children, and their children. Nothing but their happiness..."

"Don't say that, Amma" Prabhu-ji sighed audibly, "Aren't you a little old for a mid-life crisis?"

Malati listened on, as if in a trance, as Amma laughed for the first time in ages. A weak, bubbly giggle, and Prabhu uncle's throaty laughter made it to her ears.

"It's like an end-of-life crisis, Prabhu-ji" Amma's voice was soft.

Prabhu-ji didn't say anything.

"You know, Prabhu-ji?" Amma spoke again, "We gave our everything to bring up our children, but they don't even try to understand us. If Padmaja didn't feel hot here, she would've never installed that air conditioner. She doesn't understand that the cold air gives me joint pain. She always scolds Malati to put it on, even if I say I don't like it..."

"Shruti does it too" Prabhu uncle sounded annoyed, "She keeps making those American dishes...that cheese and that pasta and what not....I don't like it, but does anyone listen to me?"

Amma giggled again.

Malati was making her way back to the kitchen, her mind heavy, when the calling-bell rang again, and rang insistently. Violently rubbing the back of her hand across her face to brush away any remnants of those tears, she rushed across the hallway to the main door, and opened it to come face-to-face with a flustered Shruti.

"Is dad here?" Shruti seemed close to crying herself.

"Yes, he's with Amma..." Malati stepped aside.

"I made a mistake" Shruti laughed weakly, "I should've never told him I wanted to paint over the house...my kids were going through some albums...they...they came across one photograph where mum and dad were sitting and choosing wall colours....I completely forgot that they chose it together..."

Malati had nothing to say. She simply managed a smile and pointed towards the room.

"In there" she cleared her throat, "I'll get you some water."

"He's okay, Malati-ma?" Shruti's voice was tremulous.

"He's fine" she sighed, "they're always fine, aren't they?"

"He should've just told me" Shruti shook her head dejectedly, "If my kids ever did it to me, I would scream the house down!"

Malati smiled again. Amma was right – the kids would never know until they faced it themselves. She waved towards the room again and walked back to the kitchen. Shruti was sitting on Arati Devi's bed when Malati returned.

They sat for an hour, and talked of all things but the elephant in the room. All types of small talk, but all four of them avoided anything to do with the past. Malati wondered if it had been schooled into all of them to never speak of it.

Was it so wrong to remember?

They finally left close to six in the evening, and Malati went to make tea. When she entered Amma's room with the tea, the old lady was lying still on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Slowly, she turned her rheumy eyes to Malati and spoke.

"Malati? The albums?"

This time, Malati smiled and walked to the cupboard in the living room and took out all the albums, the old and dusty, the new and pristine, all of it.

"I found them, Amma!" she yelled, and was shocked to see the old lady actually sitting up when she came back.

She didn't have to say anything – Amma took charge of the albums and went through them greedily, pointing out people, pointing out events, and above all, pointing out memories.

The stories behind all the photographs came out as ninety-year old cataract-patient Arati Devi saw her life through the crystal-clear mirror of memories.

...My Asmi was just three years old in this. See, see that mischievous smile!...

...Look at Padmaja, she was stubborn back then too!...

...Ah, look! My wedding picture! I was only sixteen, you know? Old by the village standards, but my father was very strict about it... I was his princess!

...See this? The first time I made a birthday cake for your father-in-law! You know, that day, there was no flour in the house so I had to send that stupid servant boy...and he got atta instead of maida...oh that cake! Ahahaha...

Malati was looking more at Arati Devi's face than at the photos. The old lady had never looked so very happy. Suddenly, she stopped, fingering a photo. Malati looked down to see an old black and white candid photo of a young woman and a man.

"I don't even remember when this was taken..." the old lady brushed her fingers over the faces trying her hardest to remember, sorrow etched into her face. Slowly, she turned it around. Behind it was a date.

26th November, 1952.

"Ah..." the old lady's eyes misted over, "this day..."

"What happened, Amma?" Malati asked, curious.

"We found out that we were going to have Asmi" the old lady's voice was barely a whisper, "Now he's gone...and Asmi's gone...and I'm the only one left..."

**

Malati remembered this day again, seven months later, as she cleaned the house for the last time. Amma had passed away a month ago, and now all the rituals were over. She had no reason to stay back here anymore.

"I will renovate this place!" Mrs. Padmaja has sworn, taking away all choice.

Now she had to follow her frigid husband to the city, and pray that he hadn't found another wife.

She closed the windows for the last time, shut down the electricity and water mains, locked the doors. She should've walked out at that point, but something made her go back to Amma's room. She stared at the empty bed for the last time, consoling herself that the lady had lived a full life. She couldn't stop herself from fluffing her pillow for the last time, and that is when she felt something stiff under it.

With shaking hands, she lifted the pillow, and saw that same black and white candid photograph.

That was the day we found out that we were having Asmi...

The dam she had stifled for years finally burst open. Amma, with all her miseries and sorrows, was surrounded with family as she died. With all her griping, there were people to pander to her every need. Someone sent money, someone came to talk to her, someone went over the albums with her...

Who would protect Malati from society now? When the time came, who would stand by Malati?

In old age, which photograph would she hold on to?

**