Rohan sat at the teak dining table, dodging his mother’s attempts to pile a third paratha onto his plate. "Beta, you're looking thin," she insisted, a phrase she’d used since he was six. Across from them, his grandfather, Bauji, rustled the morning paper, grumbling about the rising price of gold while secretly waiting for someone to ask his opinion on the evening's cricket match.
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The ceiling fan creaked in lazy circles. Savitri rolled chapatis on the wooden board, her bangles clicking a gentle rhythm. In the courtyard, her son Rahul argued on the phone—something about a job in Bangalore. Her husband watched the news, volume low. The scent of cumin and rain-soaked earth drifted in. The doorbell rang. It was the neighbor, Mrs. Sharma, eyes wide with news. "Have you heard about the Sharma boy?" she whispered. Savitri sighed. Another secret. Another storm. She reached for the turmeric. Rohan sat at the teak dining table, dodging