Rajiv lowered his paper. “Your mother’s chai is perfect. Drink it or leave it.”

The noise was immense. The news anchor shouted about politics. Aryan argued about molarity. Kavya spelled out loud. Sharadha Ji recited a prayer. And through it all, Meena chopped. The cool green smell of coriander mixed with the exhaust fumes from the street below and the sound of a bhajan from the temple across the road.

“I’ll drop them,” Rajiv said, kissing Meena on the top of her head. “You rest for a bit.”