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Their home was a maze of four generations. In the inner courtyard, her great-grandmother, Dadi, sat on a wooden charpoy , her wrinkled fingers rolling chapatis with a speed that Meera could never match. The air smelled of fresh ghee, coriander, and the smoky incense from the small temple tucked in the corner.

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“Drink. The London air has made you thin.” Their home was a maze of four generations

Above them, the same moon that watched over the Taj Mahal, the Kerala backwaters, and the crowded local trains of Mumbai, also watched over this small rooftop in Jaipur. And it smiled. sat on a wooden charpoy