Arjun wiped his hands on his gamchha —the checkered cotton towel always slung over his shoulder. “In our culture,” he said, “we believe that Atithi Devo Bhava —the guest is God. But I think, sometimes, the chai is just the excuse. The real meeting is between two people, sharing a moment of warmth.”

“No, Papa,” Arjun had replied, arranging a row of khoya sweets on a banana leaf. “I am turning toward it.”

When Elena left, she took a clay cup with her. Not as a souvenir, but as a promise. Back in her cold, efficient city, she would brew ginger tea at 5 a.m., close her eyes, and hear the Ganges. Arjun, meanwhile, continued to pour. He poured for the grieving, the joyful, the lost, and the found.

“It’s good, son,” he said.