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"Old is what happens when you stay in one place long enough," Ammachi said. "Come sit. The olappam is almost ready."

She watched Ammachi's hands work the batter. There was a rhythm to it, almost musical, as if the old woman were playing an instrument. Meera remembered watching this same ritual as a child, sitting cross-legged on this same floor, eating olappam with her fingers while the monsoon hammered the roof. "Old is what happens when you stay in

She hadn't been back in six years. Not since the argument. There was a rhythm to it, almost musical,

"You've become old," Meera replied, and immediately wished she could swallow the words. Not since the argument

Meera set down her bag and sat on the cool red-oxide floor. Around her, the house breathed — the creak of wood, the distant call of a koel, the faint percussion of someone's chenda practicing in a neighboring lane. Mumbai had sounds too, but they were the sounds of machinery. This was the sound of something alive.

Ammachi finally looked up. Her face was a map of wrinkles, but her eyes — those sharp, dark eyes that had once terrified a teenage Meera into obedience — hadn't dimmed at all.

What no one in Mumbai knew was that Meera had run away from home.