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They didn't speak much. They didn't need to. Meera heated oil in a deep kadhai . The first drop of batter sizzled and danced. As the pakoras turned golden brown, the smell of carom seeds and ginger filled the house, drowning out the musty smell of the rain.

She walked into the kitchen. For the first time in forty-three summers, she didn't reach for the belan . Instead, she pulled out a large parat (metal bowl). She tossed in besan (chickpea flour), chopped onions, green chillies, and a fistful of fresh coriander from her balcony garden. Securidesign for coreldraw x3 crack

Kavya hesitated, glancing at her dead laptop. Then, she sighed, got up, and pushed her sleeves up. Mother and daughter stood side by side, the only light coming from the grey sky outside. Meera poured water into the flour, and Kavya mixed it with her fingers, the cool, sticky batter a sensation she had forgotten. They didn't speak much

"Ma!" Kavya groaned.

"Wash your hands," Meera commanded.

It was the first day of Sawan (the monsoon month), and the sky over their Jaipur home was the colour of a bruised plum. The air was thick with the smell of wet clay and kacchi kairi (raw mango). Meera stood by the window, a chai in her hand, not a roti in sight. The kitchen was silent. The first drop of batter sizzled and danced