Chapter 6: The Photograph

Rony's trembling fingers made contact with the blue saree fabric at Sri's waist, his touch lingering on the embroidered border as he traced the gold threadwork his mother once wore.

Raj watched those fingers move across the fabric with deliberate slowness. The touch wasn't casual. It wasn't brief. Rony's hand rested against his mother's waist, pressing into the silk as if memorizing the texture through his fingertips.

Sri stood perfectly still, allowing the contact. Her face showed uncertainty mixed with compassion, like she knew this was strange but couldn't bring herself to stop a grieving child from seeking comfort.

Rony's breathing had changed. It was deeper now, more controlled than the ragged sobs from moments before. His eyes tracked the movement of his own fingers as they followed the gold embroidery from Sri's waist upward along her side.

"Rony," Sri said gently. "Maybe that's—"

Rony suddenly jerked his hand back like he'd touched fire. He stumbled backward, his legs tangling as he retreated from her. His face crumpled completely, fresh tears flooding his eyes.

Then he dropped to his knees on the hallway floor.

The impact was audible. His knees hit the wooden boards hard enough that it must have hurt, but he didn't seem to notice. His whole body curled forward, his hands covering his face as sobs tore from his throat.

"I'm sorry," he choked out between gasps. "I'm so sorry, Aunt Sri. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm disgusting."

Sri's expression shifted immediately to alarm. "Rony, what—"

"I touched you inappropriately." Rony's voice was muffled behind his hands, thick with tears and shame. "I asked you to wear her saree and then I—I put my hands on you like some kind of pervert. What's wrong with me? What kind of son am I?"

"Rony, stop—"

"My mother would be ashamed." Rony's shoulders shook violently. "She'd be so ashamed of what I've become. I can't even honor her memory without turning it into something sick. I'm disgusting. I'm—"

Sri dropped to her knees beside him without hesitation. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping them firmly. "Rony, listen to me. Stop this right now."

He didn't lower his hands from his face. His crying intensified.

"Look at me." Sri's voice carried gentle authority. "Rony. Look at me."

Slowly, reluctantly, Rony's hands fell away. His face was blotchy and wet, his eyes red-rimmed and genuinely anguished. Snot ran from his nose. He looked wrecked.

Sri lifted his chin with one hand, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Your touch was innocent. Do you hear me? Innocent."

"But I—"

"You touched the saree. The fabric. You were connecting with your mother's memory through something she wore. There was nothing inappropriate about that."

"I touched your waist." Rony's voice cracked. "I put my hand on your body. That's not innocent. That's—"

"That's a grieving child seeking comfort through physical connection to his mother's belongings." Sri's tone was firm but warm. "I understand exactly what you need, Rony. You need to feel connected to her memory. You need tangible things to hold onto. There's nothing shameful in that."

Rony's breath hitched. "Are you sure? Because I feel like I'm losing my mind. I feel like my grief is turning me into someone terrible."

"You're not terrible. You're hurting." Sri's thumbs wiped at the tears on his cheeks. "And I'm here to help you through this pain. That's what mothers do."

From his position near the storage room doorway, Raj felt his stomach turn. His mother was buying every word. Every calculated sob, every perfectly timed apology, every self-flagellating confession designed to make her reassure him that his behavior was acceptable.

It was masterful manipulation. Rony had pushed boundaries, then immediately retreated with exaggerated shame, forcing Sri to not only excuse his actions but actively validate them. She'd now defend his touching her because she'd convinced him it was innocent. Any future objections Raj raised would position him as the one sexualizing a grieving child's innocent need for comfort.

Rony wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling. "I just miss her so much. Every day it gets harder, not easier. Everyone says time heals, but I don't feel healed. I feel like I'm drowning."

"I know." Sri pulled him into an embrace. Rony's face pressed against her shoulder—against the blue saree that had belonged to his mother. His hands came up slowly, tentatively, resting against Sri's back.

They stayed like that for several long moments. Rony's breathing gradually steadied. His sobbing quieted to occasional hiccups.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were still wet but his expression had shifted to something more thoughtful. Hesitant.

"Aunt Sri?" His voice was small, childlike.

"Yes?"

"This is going to sound stupid." Rony looked down at his hands. "But could I... could I maybe take just one photo of you wearing the saree?"

Sri blinked. "A photo?"

"I know it's a weird request." The words tumbled out quickly, defensively. "But I thought—if I had a picture, then on my worst days, when the grief gets really bad, I could look at it and remember my mother. See her smile in your face. Feel like she's not completely gone." He paused, then added more quietly, "It would help. During my darkest moments."

Raj opened his mouth to object, but his mother was already nodding.

"Of course," Sri said. "If it helps you, then of course."

Rony's face transformed. Relief and something else—something that looked uncomfortably like excitement—flashed across his features. "Really? You don't mind?"

"Not at all. Whatever helps you heal."

Rony scrambled to his feet with sudden energy. "I'll get my phone. Just wait right there. Don't move."

He disappeared into his bedroom with unusual quickness for someone who'd been collapsed in grief moments ago. Raj watched him go, then looked at his mother.

Sri stood in the hallway, smoothing the saree fabric, adjusting the pallu over her shoulder. She wouldn't meet Raj's eyes.

"Mom," Raj said quietly. "You know this is wrong."

"A photograph is harmless."

"Nothing he does is harmless."

"He's grieving, Raj. He needs—"

"He needs you to wear his dead mother's clothes and pose for pictures?" Raj couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice. "You don't see how messed up that is?"

Sri's jaw tightened. "What I see is a boy in pain trying to find any small comfort he can. What you see is some kind of perverted conspiracy. We're looking at the same situation with very different eyes."

"Because you're too close to see clearly."

"Or because you're too suspicious to see compassion." Sri finally looked at him, her expression hard. "I know you don't approve. You've made that abundantly clear. But I'm still going to help him. Whether you like it or not."

Rony emerged from his bedroom before Raj could respond. He was wiping his eyes with his sleeve but his phone was clutched in his other hand. His tears were slowing, though his face still showed all the physical evidence of crying.

"Thank you," he said to Sri, his voice rough but steadier than before. "This means everything to me."

Sri smiled at him warmly. "Where would you like me to stand?"

Rony looked around the hallway, his eyes assessing. "Maybe by the window? The light would hit the saree better there. Make it shimmer like it used to when my mother wore it."

He pointed to the window at the end of the hallway, near the stairs. Natural evening light filtered through the glass, creating a soft glow.

Sri walked to the indicated spot. She stood facing the window, the light catching the blue silk and making the gold embroidery gleam exactly as Rony had described.

Rony lifted his phone, framing the shot. "Perfect. That's perfect. Just like I remember."

He took several photos. The camera sound clicked repeatedly.

Then he lowered the phone, studying the screen. His expression shifted to dissatisfaction. "The angle isn't quite right. Could you turn slightly? And maybe adjust the pallu over your shoulder? My mother used to drape it differently. More to the front."

Sri complied, turning her body and repositioning the fabric of the pallu so it fell more prominently across her chest.

Rony took more photos. Click. Click. Click.

Then more adjustments. "Tilt your head. Look toward the window instead of the camera. Put your hand on the windowsill. No, the other hand."

Each instruction was delivered in that same soft, grief-tinged voice. Each one pushed Sri into slightly different positions, different angles, different poses that had nothing to do with remembering his mother and everything to do with capturing images of Sri herself.

Raj could see it happening. Could see Rony directing his mother like a photographer with a model, getting exactly the shots he wanted while framing it all as honoring his dead mother's memory.

"That's beautiful," Rony said quietly, taking another series of photos. "You look just like her."

The photo session continued. More angles. More adjustments. Rony's initial hesitancy had evaporated, replaced by focused direction that felt increasingly confident.

"Could we move to a different location?" Rony asked after several minutes. "Some of my strongest memories of my mother are in specific places in the house. If we could recreate those..."

Sri nodded without hesitation. "Of course. Where?"

Rony's eyes flickered briefly to Raj, then away. "Her bedroom. There are certain poses—certain places she used to stand and sit—that I remember so clearly. It would mean a lot to capture those."

Raj's hands clenched. His mother's bedroom. Of course that's where this was heading.

Sri didn't seem troubled by the suggestion. "Lead the way."

Rony walked down the hallway toward a door Raj recognized as belonging to his uncle and late aunt's room. The door had been closed since they'd arrived, the room apparently left undisturbed since the aunt's death.

Rony opened it slowly, like entering sacred space.

The room beyond was frozen in time. The bed was made with careful precision, the covers pulled tight and smoothed. Personal items still sat on the dresser—a hairbrush, a jewelry box, a framed photo of the family from happier times. The air smelled stale, like the room had been sealed off from the rest of the house.

Rony stepped inside. Sri followed. Raj stayed in the doorway, unable to leave but unable to fully enter this shrine to the dead.

"She used to stand here in the mornings," Rony said, pointing to a spot near the window. "Getting ready for the day. She'd wear her saree and stand right there, doing her hair in the mirror."

Sri moved to the indicated spot. The evening light came through the window at a different angle than the hallway, casting warmer tones across the room.

Rony lifted his phone again. Click. Click. Click.

"Could you turn toward the mirror? Pretend you're fixing your hair?"

Sri raised her hands to her hair, mimicking the action. Rony circled her slowly, taking photos from multiple angles. His earlier tears had dried completely now. His movements were steady, controlled, purposeful.

"And she used to sit on the edge of the bed," Rony continued, gesturing to the neatly made bed. "In the evenings, before sleep. She'd sit right there and I'd come talk to her about my day."

Sri hesitated for the first time. Sitting on the dead woman's bed felt like a different level of intrusion than standing in her spot. But Rony was looking at her with those red-rimmed eyes, that expression of desperate hope, and her resistance crumbled.

She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, her posture straight, her hands folded in her lap.

Rony took more photos. He moved closer now, kneeling to get the angle right, capturing shots that showed Sri on the bed with the room's details in the background.

"This is exactly how I remember her," Rony said softly. "Sitting just like that. Thank you for this, Aunt Sri. You're giving me back memories I thought I'd lost forever."

Sri's expression melted into sympathy. She didn't see the calculation in Rony's eyes as he reviewed the photos on his phone screen. She didn't notice how his thumb moved across the screen, zooming in on certain images, examining them with an intensity that had nothing to do with grief.

"There's one more pose," Rony said hesitantly. "My most precious memory. But it might be too much to ask."

"Tell me," Sri encouraged.

"Sometimes, when I was younger—when I had nightmares or couldn't sleep—she'd let me lie down beside her on this bed. She'd hold me and tell me everything would be okay." Rony's voice wavered convincingly. "Could you... could you maybe lie down? Just for one photo. So I can remember what that looked like. What safety felt like."

Raj finally found his voice. "Mom, no. This is too much."

Sri didn't even glance his direction. Her eyes were fixed on Rony's grief-stricken face, completely absorbed in his manufactured pain.

"It's fine, Raj," she said quietly.

"It's not fine. He's—"

"I said it's fine." Her voice carried warning.

Sri shifted on the bed, swinging her legs up and lying back across the mattress. The blue saree draped across her body, the fabric pooling around her curves. She looked uncomfortable, her arms held stiffly at her sides, but she stayed in position.

Rony moved to the side of the bed, lifting his phone. The camera clicked repeatedly, capturing images of Sri lying on his dead mother's bed wearing his dead mother's clothes.

Then Rony lowered the phone. His fingers worried at the edge of his shirt. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

"Could I... would it be okay if I lay down beside you? Just for one final photo. I have this specific memory—this really important memory—of cuddling with her on this exact bed when I was scared. If I could recreate that, just once, it would help me so much. I could look at the photo whenever the grief gets overwhelming and remember what it felt like to be safe."

Sri's hesitation was visible. She understood this was crossing into different territory. Lying beside her was different than her lying alone. It created an intimacy that went beyond memorial recreation.

But Rony was already tearing up again, his eyes glistening in the evening light coming through the window. His whole body radiated vulnerable need.

"Please," he whispered. "I know it's too much. I know I'm asking too much. But I just need to feel safe one more time. Just once. Then I'll never ask for anything like this again."

Sri looked at the ceiling, her internal debate playing across her features. Raj could see her wavering, could see compassion winning over common sense.

"Alright," she finally said. "One photo. Then we're done with this."

Rony's face lit up despite his tears. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

He moved to the other side of the bed with his phone still in hand. Then he carefully, slowly, positioned himself on the mattress beside Sri. He lay on his side, facing her, leaving a small gap between their bodies.

"I need to get the angle right," he explained, holding his phone up. "And I can't really take it from here. Could we just—"

He shifted closer. His body pressed against Sri's side. His arm came around her waist, just above where the saree's pleats gathered. His head rested near her shoulder.

From the doorway, Raj watched his cousin position himself against his mother like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like they were actually mother and son sharing an innocent moment instead of what this really was—a calculated manipulation to get physical access.

Rony held his phone at arm's length, angling it to capture both of them in frame. The camera clicked. Then again. And again.

"Just a few more," Rony murmured. His arm tightened slightly around Sri's waist. His face turned more fully into her shoulder. "Perfect. This is perfect."

Click. Click. Click.

Sri's discomfort was obvious now. Her body was tense, her breathing shallow. She wasn't naive enough to miss the intimacy of this position, but she'd already agreed and backing out now would mean admitting she'd misjudged the situation. Admitting Raj had been right.

Rony took his time. Each photo required slight adjustments. A shift of his arm. A repositioning of his head. A change in the angle of his phone.

Raj stood frozen in the doorway, watching his cousin essentially cuddle his mother on a dead woman's bed while taking photos to document it. His voice wouldn't work. His body wouldn't move. He could only stand there, helpless, as the scene played out exactly as Rony had orchestrated.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Rony lowered his phone. He didn't immediately move away from Sri though. He stayed pressed against her side, his arm around her waist, his breathing deep and even.

"Thank you," he whispered. "This means everything to me. You've given me back my mother, even if just for a moment."

Sri's expression softened despite her obvious discomfort. She patted his hand—the one resting on her waist. "I'm glad I could help."

Rony finally, reluctantly, pulled away. He sat up on the edge of the bed, his phone clutched in both hands. He was studying the screen, scrolling through the photos with an expression that looked satisfied despite the tear tracks still visible on his face.

Sri sat up as well, smoothing the saree, adjusting the pallu that had shifted during the photo session. She wouldn't look at Raj.

"I think I should change back into my own clothes now," she said quietly.

Rony nodded, still absorbed in his phone. "Of course. Thank you again, Aunt Sri. These photos will help me more than you could possibly know."

Sri stood and walked toward the door, toward Raj. He stepped aside to let her pass. As she moved into the hallway, he caught a glimpse of her face. She looked shaken, like part of her was beginning to question what she'd just participated in.

But she didn't say anything. Just walked to her own bedroom and closed the door behind her.

Raj and Rony were left alone in the dead woman's bedroom.

Rony was still sitting on the bed, scrolling through photos. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. All traces of tears and grief had vanished from his expression, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like triumph.

Raj should leave. Should walk away and not engage. But his feet wouldn't move.

"You're sick," Raj said quietly.

Rony didn't look up from his phone. "I'm grieving."

"You're manipulating her."

"She agreed to everything. Every single thing." Rony's finger swiped across the screen, moving through image after image. "I didn't force her to do anything."

"You guilt-tripped her. You used your dead mother's memory to—"

"To get comfort from my aunt?" Rony finally looked up, his expression innocent. "To create precious memories that help me cope with my loss? What exactly am I doing wrong, Raj?"

Raj had no answer. Not one that wouldn't sound paranoid or cruel when spoken aloud. Because on the surface, everything Rony had asked for could be explained as innocent grief-driven requests. It was only when you saw the pattern, the manipulation, the calculation behind the tears that the truth became clear.

And his mother couldn't—or wouldn't—see that pattern.

"Stay away from her," Raj said.

"Or what?" Rony's smile widened slightly. "You'll hit me again? Make her even angrier with you? Push her further toward me?"

He stood from the bed, phone still in hand. He walked toward Raj slowly, stopping just a few feet away.

"You can't protect her from me," Rony said softly. "Every time you try, you push her closer. Every warning you give makes her more determined to prove you wrong. You're helping me, Raj. You just don't realize it."

Raj's hands clenched into fists. He wanted to grab that phone, to delete every photo, to shake his cousin until the manipulation stopped. But he couldn't. Any physical action would play exactly into Rony's hands.

"She'll see through you eventually," Raj said.

"Maybe. Eventually." Rony's thumb moved across his phone screen, tapping something. "But by then it won't matter. I'll already have everything I need."

He turned the phone around, showing Raj the screen.

It displayed one of the photos from moments ago. Sri lying on the bed in the blue saree, Rony pressed against her side, his arm around her waist. The angle made it look even more intimate than it had felt watching it happen. They looked like lovers, not aunt and nephew. Not mother and son.

"Insurance," Rony said simply. "In case my new mother ever thinks about abandoning me. In case she starts listening to you. I have all these beautiful photos showing how close we are. How much comfort she provides. How inappropriate our relationship could look to someone who doesn't understand our special bond."

Raj's blood ran cold. "You're blackmailing her?"

"I'm protecting myself." Rony's expression remained calm, almost serene. "Making sure no one can separate me from the maternal love I deserve. These photos ensure that no matter what you try to do, no matter what you try to tell her, she won't abandon me. Because the consequences of these images getting out—to your father, to my father, to anyone—would be devastating for her reputation. Her marriage. Her life."

He lowered the phone, the smile still playing at his lips.

"So you see, Raj, you've already lost. The only question now is whether you keep fighting and make things worse, or whether you accept reality and stop trying to interfere with my healing process."

Rony stepped past Raj into the hallway. He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"I'm going to send myself a few of these photos right now. As backup. You know, in case something happens to my phone." He lifted the device, his thumb moving across the screen. "Just to be safe."

The soft sound of messages being sent punctuated his words. One. Two. Three.

Then Rony walked down the hallway toward his own bedroom, whistling softly under his breath. The sound was incongruous, almost cheerful, completely at odds with the grieving child act he'd performed minutes earlier.

His bedroom door closed. The lock clicked.

Raj stood alone in the hallway outside his dead aunt's bedroom, staring at his cousin's closed door, and finally understood the full scope of the trap his mother had walked into. The trap he'd failed to prevent her from entering.