"He never said it." Kabir was sitting on the terrace of the clinic. The sun was setting, turning the Noida smog into a bruised purple. He was holding a cold cup of coffee, staring at the traffic below. "He never said 'I love you,'" Kabir repeated, looking at Shukla Master. "Not once. Thirty-two years. I paid his bills. I bought him a car. I lived in the same house. But he never looked me in the eye and said the words. Why? Was I not enough?" Shukla Master sat on a plastic chair, peeling peanuts. He tossed a shell to a squirrel that was eyeing him from the parapet.