The Roy haveli simmered under the late afternoon heat, its marble courtyard glowing like molten glass, the air thick with the stench of coal smoke and wilting jasmine. I knelt in the back kitchen, my hands blackened with soot, scrubbing brass thalis until my fingers bled. My back screamed, drenched in sweat, the coarse muslin of my faded blue sari chafing my skin like sandpaper. The coal fire roared, its heat licking my face, each breath a struggle.

Chachi ji's voice sliced through the courtyard. "She didn't even scrub the copper plates properly today," she declared. "Ash still clings to the rims. What kind of woman can't manage a simple thali? A barren one, that's who."