"Ma," Meera said. "One minute, beta. The milk is boiling." "Ma, stop." Mrs. Taneja froze. She turned around, worry etching deep lines into her forehead. "What happened? Is it Rahul? Is it your husband? Did you lose your job?" "No," Meera said. She stepped into the kitchen—a domain she usually treated as a service station. She turned off the gas stove. The hissing stopped. The silence was sudden and loud. "Come," Meera said. "But the rotis..." "The rotis can get cold. Come." She took her mother's hand. It was rough, callous, and warm. Meera led her to the dining table and pulled out a chair. "Sit." Mrs. Taneja sat, looking terrified. In Indian households, when a busy, corporate daughter asks a mother to sit in the middle of the day, it usually means bad news.