“Chahat beta, you won’t believe it.After seeing Yuvraj, Vidyut actually burst into tears and said he wanted to marry him!” Dadi-sa exclaimed with a gleeful chuckle, pointing to the photograph. In the picture, Vidyut stood solemnly in a crisp white kurta, a traditional loincloth wrapped neatly below, a regal pagdi perched atop his head. Beside him, Yuvraj was adorned in a vibrant Rajasthani pink poshak, complete with a nath, shimmering jewelry, and a touch of lipstick,his appearance so strikingly feminine that Vidyut’s gaze had never once strayed from him.

“Really?” I said, both astonished and amused, a laugh escaping my lips. I was in Dadi-sa’s room, keeping her company for the afternoon. She’d been feeling dull and listless, sitting idly in her chair, the usual sparkle in her eyes dimmed. At her request, I had pulled out the old sanduk from the depths of her wardrobe,a timeworn chest heavy with memories. One by one, she began recounting the stories behind the photographs tucked inside. I smiled, listening to her voice drift through the years.