Everything in the house felt touched by sunlight these days.
Morning after morning, the same quiet blessing repeated itself: tea on the verandah, the rustle of newspapers, Gatha’s light voice drifting from the kitchen.

Reva had made a habit of beginning her day with Gatha. Sometimes she woke before the young couple, boiled milk, and waited until she heard Gatha’s soft “Good morning.” Other times she slipped in with a small plate of fruit and said, “Come, let’s sit near the window. I’ll tell you how Siddharth once climbed the tamarind tree and wouldn’t come down.”