"I have been having this... ghabrahat," Mrs. Taneja whispered, touching her chest. Ghabrahat. It is the untranslatable North Indian term for a mix of anxiety, palpitations, restlessness, and a sense of impending doom. Usually, when her mother said this, Meera would roll her eyes and say, "Take a Digene, Ma. It's just gas." Or she would schedule a cardiologist appointment to "fix" the hardware, ignoring the software. Meera sat down opposite her. She didn't offer a pill. She didn't offer a doctor. "Tell me about it," Meera said. "Where does it hurt?" Her mother looked surprised. "It... it feels heavy. Here." She rubbed her sternum. "Like a bird is fluttering inside. I get scared when the phone rings. I think... maybe something happened to you."