As she lay down, Meera whispered a small thanks—not for anything grand, but for the full tiffin boxes returned empty, for the noise, for the borrowed sugar, for the chai that was always a little too sweet.

Tomorrow, she thought, she’d make aloo parathas .

“Good morning to you too,” she said, sliding a steel plate toward him. “Eat first. Money later.”

“I know,” he replied. Some conversations needed no words.

Meera smiled. “I added curry leaves from the terrace garden. Your nani’s recipe.”