By 1 PM, the sun was brutal. The streets emptied. The shutters of half the shops came down. This was the time for the , a sacred, unspoken rule of the Indian climate. The house fell into a hush. Ashok lay on his wooden charpai in the courtyard, a thin cotton sheet over him, the ceiling fan’s dhak-dhak a lullaby. Meera worked on her laptop, but her mind drifted to the smell of the kitchen: leftover dal-chawal with a dollop of homemade ghee and a side of aam ka achaar (mango pickle) that was so potent it could clear sinuses from ten feet away.
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