The kitchen smelled of cumin and ginger, the afternoon heat pressing against the windows like a living thing. Rakesh stood in the doorway, his cotton kurta sticking to his back, and watched his daughter-in-law, Nita, move between the stove and the counter.

Nita was seven months along, her belly a taut drum beneath the thin cotton of her saree. She hadn't heard him come in. Her pallu had slipped from her shoulder, and as she reached up to the spice shelf, the fabric of her blouse pulled tight across her chest.