Ramesh stood in the balcony, nursing a glass of hot ginger tea while the city’s morning sounds—the rhythmic sweep of a neighbor’s broom and the distant chime of temple bells—began to swell. Beside him, his wife, Sunita, was a whirlwind in the kitchen. The hiss of the pressure cooker was the house’s heartbeat, signaling that the afternoon dal was already underway before anyone had even eaten breakfast.