The house had been quiet for three months since Amma’s funeral. Too quiet. Aisha, twenty-three, had stayed home after the last rites, cooking the meals her father barely touched, washing his clothes, sitting with him in the evenings while the television droned. She told herself it was temporary. She had a job offer in Pune waiting, a small rented room already promised by a college friend. She just needed to make sure Papa was stable.

Papa was not stable.