"Not so tight, Meera," her mother scolded gently, watching her daughter pinch the dough. "You are strangling him. The modak must look like a happy, fat belly."
And just like that, the day was no longer Meera's. It belonged to the household. "Not so tight, Meera," her mother scolded gently,
"Today is Ganesh Chaturthi," Aaji said, setting down her cup. It wasn't a reminder; it was a declaration of war. It belonged to the household
By noon, the flat smelled of warm sugar and fried dough. Thirty perfect modaks sat on a banana leaf, glistening. The small, clay idol of Ganesh arrived, painted a cheerful pink, with eyes that seemed to hold a gentle, knowing secret. By noon, the flat smelled of warm sugar and fried dough
"Too much noise," Aaji whispered, looking at the little pink god sitting on their makeshift altar. "Too much work."
"Did the sun rise today?" Aaji retorted without turning around. "Sit."