Last Saturday evening, with no work to rush to, I found myself lost in thought when my nephew, Shitij—an aspiring Gen Z doctor—walked in, holding an old, weathered photo album.

The moment I saw it, nostalgia swept over me. This album, worn and frayed, had been a silent keeper of memories my entire life.

Shitij sat beside me and asked, “Mausi, who are all these people in this album?”
For a moment, I was taken aback. “Arrey, how can you not know?” I replied with a smile. “Alright, let me tell you.”

On the first page was a photo of my dashing father in his Army uniform, standing beside my shy mother, both newlyweds. It was the kind of picture couples sent out in the ’70s to announce their marriage.

As we turned the pages, we traveled back in time. My eyes misted when I saw my Dadi maa. “This is my Dadi,” I told Shitiz. “She was such a wonderful soul.” Speaking the words, I realized I had never stopped missing her. She was a part of my innocent, carefree childhood—the kind you never truly leave behind.

Then came a picture of my father holding a gold medal on his college sports day. “Your Nana,” I said, “set a 100-meter sprint record that remained unbroken for years.” Shitiz’s eyes widened in surprise, seeing his Nana—now a slow-walking but proud Army veteran—in a new light.

Page after page, I told him stories of newborn me, my sisters, my cousins, and elders who are no longer with us. He listened intently before asking, “Mausi, how do you remember all of this?”
“How could I forget?” I said. “This album has been with me since the day I was born.”

Soon, my father joined us. He smiled as he saw his younger self staring back at him, a man full of dreams. The joy and melancholy in his eyes were unmistakable—a bittersweet reflection of a life lived.

As I left for home, I glanced back to see my father—a Boomer—now telling his Gen Z grandson stories of his life, adding even more layers to the memories I had shared.

In that moment, I understood the magic of this album. It wasn’t just a collection of photos; it was a bridge connecting generations, a reminder of the beauty in sharing stories and spending time together.

Now I know why my mother now and grandmother often used to sit with old albums.They aren’t just looking at photographs—they’re reliving their lives, one cherished memory at a time.