The kitchen was the heart of the large joint family home in Old Delhi, a place of simmering dals, fragrant spices, and the constant hum of activity. For twenty years, Prashant had been its quiet master. At fifty-two, he was still solidly built, his arms thick from years of kneading dough and hauling heavy pots. His hair was streaked with grey at the temples, his face lined but sharp-eyed. He had watched the children of the house grow up, including the youngest daughter of the eldest son—Pihu.

Pihu was twenty-two, studying literature at Delhi University. She had a soft, round face, large dark eyes, and a body that had filled out in the last couple of years—full breasts that strained against her kurtas, a narrow waist, and wide hips. She still moved with the shy grace of a girl who had never known a man’s hands. In the joint family, privacy was rare. She shared a room with her younger cousin, and the only place she could be alone early in the morning was the kitchen, where she often came down in her thin cotton nightie to make herself a cup of tea before the household woke.