I received her in the cartel of relatives that followed Archana, my wife, into my life. She was the wife of Archana’s maternal uncle. I met Archana first, at her place. We sat in a room lined by tall book-cases. From their spines, books appeared old, many were leather-bound. Atmosphere was stiff. None appeared comfortable to make light conversation. Stilted inane talk filled the room and made the air heavy.   Mamiji salvaged the situation. She spoke to me with a candour that belied the fact that we were meeting for the first time. She asked me direct questions about my job. She wanted to know how Archana, who was then pursuing post-graduate degree in Pathology, would practice her profession in Air Force where I had been commissioned a few months back. There was not a trace of hesitation in her voice, but neither did she sound nosy. She keenly listened to my answers. I instantly warmed up to this elderly lady. Those days Mamiji lived in an old house in Bengali Market in Central Delh