There was a formal photo of Rajan’s family posing in a studio in front of heavy curtains. Her father-in-law sat with his British raj moustache and studio walking cane. Rajan’s sister, Lali, was seated next to him. She had died shortly after it was taken. It was the only photo Rajan had of her. Nala’s mother-in-law was there too, preserved imperiously in sepia. Little Rajan was perched on a raised chair, squeezed in between his parents. Nala smiled at his oversized head on top of a tiny body, the freshly starched shirt with the collar tightly buttoned, socks pulled right up to his bulbous knees. His mother had borrowed the shoes and shirt from the headmaster’s son. While they were all taking their seats, she had lovingly spat on his dry, scratched knees and rubbed them. When he recounted this story to Nala decades later, his eyes filled with tears in a way they would not do for any other woman.

She studied the photograph one more time and her hand hesitated before she placed it on the ‘to take’ pile as well.

She picked up a photograph of Archi and her family. It was her favourite—it showed Nala, Priya, her Amma and Archi—all four generations together. It was taken in 1969 on the verandah of their home.

She remembered that day so well. Archi had been unusually lucid and pain-free. She was her old self, talking and joking, passing wind as freely as she laughed. She had wanted to play Three-Nought-Four with Nala and Amma. Nandan was at cricket practice and Ayah had prepared his favourite crab curry, ready for his triumphant return.

At Archi’s request, Ayah had agreed to take a short break from the kitchen and join the game. Archi was old enough to ignore the hierarchies of caste, class and race. Her grandmother said that she and Ayah would die as equals, withered, decaying and farting symphonically to the very end.

Archi cackled as she won another hand. Nala hated to lose and was becoming impatient with Archi’s unfortunate lapse out of dementia. She was about to lose yet another hand when they heard the gates open and their Peugeot 404 drove in. She was proud they could afford a new car.

‘Nandan Baby, Nandan Baby,’ Ayah crowed with delight as she scuttled off to the kitchen for his food. The boy came running out of the car, his cricket whites stained green and brown. He started to recount the highs and lows of his afternoon in his best Richie Benaud voice. When he took a breath, Ayah would place a ball of steaming rice and crab curry in his mouth. He was thirteen and too old to be fed, but from her arthritic hand to his mouth was how it had always been for the old maid.