A long pause. “Why? Is everything okay?”

That phrase stayed with Meera. A temple without a bell. She had become her kitchen. Her identity was wrapped in the smell of cumin seeds crackling in ghee, in the perfect roundness of her chapatis, in Raj’s Tuesday verdict. But what was left when the verdict changed?

Meera hesitated. She had never sat here. She was always too busy—chopping, grinding, serving. But today, she sat. Her stiff fingers learned to thread the orange petals. The women talked about grandchildren, about the rising price of milk, about the new web series on some app their children were obsessed with. They laughed—loud, unapologetic, belly laughs that startled the pigeons.

She went downstairs. Raj was at the door, tying his shoes. He looked tired, older than his sixty-five years. He didn’t mention breakfast. He just said, “I’ll eat something at the shop.”

Her daughter, Priya, who lived in a glass-and-steel apartment in Gurugram, called. “Maa, what are you making for lunch? I’m craving your kadhi .”

For the first time in years, Meera didn’t want to cook. She wanted to see .

Raj came home at two, looking apologetic. He saw the churma . His eyes softened.