She looked at it longer than she had looked at the first.
When she reached the photograph of the mother and child, something in her expression shifted, just slightly.
Her gaze lifted to Yamini.
“You have given them recognition,” she said.
Simple words.
Yamini swallowed, surprised by the weight of them in her own chest. “Thank you.”
Rani Suchitra's eyes moved again, and Yamini knew exactly where they were going.
The Bharat’s wall.
The four photographs.
Rani Suchitra stopped.
Her gaze settled on the last image, the furnace light and the shadowed profile.
Rani Suchitra looked at it for a long moment.
“My son has never liked being photographed,” she said, without looking away from the picture.
Yamini's breath caught, just slightly.
“He tolerates it,” Rani Suchitra continued. “When it's necessary.”
Rani Suchitra finally looked at Yamini.
“You see him differently,” she said.
It wasn't a question.
Yamini didn’t say anything.
Something crossed Rani Suchitra's face. “You both express what you feel through art,” she said.
Yamini blinked, not understanding.
“You photograph,” Rani Suchitra said, her voice even. “And Bharat paints.”
Yamini froze.
Bharat paints?
She recalled the faint metallic scent on his hands some nights.
That had been paint?
Why didn’t he tell me he painted? And what had he painted?
Then she pushed away her thoughts.
I don't care.
CHAPTER 52
