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She walked over, sat down on the cold floor opposite her grandmother, and picked up a small bowl of slivered pistachios.

She looked up. Dadi was now pouring the reduced milk into a heavy-bottomed pan, her movements slow, deliberate, unhurried. There was no panic on her face. No deadline. Just trust in the process. She walked over, sat down on the cold

Ten feet away, Padmavati was squatting on a low wooden stool, her wrinkled hands working a churner into a pot of full-fat milk. The air was thick with steam and the rhythmic clink-clink of metal on clay. She walked over