The woman in the photograph

I am fifty-six now, and sometimes, I catch myself staring at my grandmother's photograph for longer than I intended.

She is sitting in a wooden chair, wearing a simple saree, her hair ties back, her hands resting quietly in her lap.

The photography. Is old and slightly faded.

So is the memory.

I remember visiting her house as a child.

The house always smelled of something cooking. There were steel vessels in the kitchen, clothes drying outside, and the constant sound of someone calling someone else's name.

I remember sitting beside her while she worked.

At the time, I thought she was simply old.

I never wonder what she had been like before I knew her as my grandmother.

Now, I wonder about it all the time.

What did she dream about when she was young?

What did she want to become?

Did she ever imagine the life she would eventually live?

Did she ever feel longer?

Did she ever look at her own reflection and wonder where the years had gone?

I know her mostly through fragments.

The way she used to call me inside when it got dark.

The food she made without measuring anything.

The way she rembered everyone's favourite dish.

The way she would pretend not to be tired when we visited.

As the time, I never understood how much work was hidden inside thouse ordinary things.

Now I am older.

I have children of my own.

And when my grandchildren visit me. I sometimes see the same excitement in their faces that I once had.

They run through the house.

They ask questions.

They demand food.

They leave their things everywhere.

And I find myself smiling at the chaos.

Then, suddenly , I remember my grandmother.

I understand her differently now.

I understand the tiredness she probably hid.

The patience she had to find.

The years she spent caring for everyone else.

I wise I could go back and ask her questions.

Not about recipes.

Not about family recipes.

Not about family stories.

About her.

About the girl she once was.

About the woman she became.

I want to know what she was afraid of.

What she wanted.

What she lost.

What she never told anyone.

But time does not return people to us simply because we have finally become old enough to understand them.

So I sit with the photography

My grandchildren are playing in the next room.

Their laughter travels through the house.

And for the moment, the years collapse.

I am a child again.

My grandmother is still alive.

The house is still full of noise.

And I haven't yet learned that ordinary days become memories only after they are gone.

Perhaps that is what nostalgia really is.

Not simply missing the past.

But finally understanding the people and moments. We were too young to appreciate while we still had them.

I look at the photography again.

She was my grandmother.

But before that, she was a woman.

And l wise I had known her whole story.