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Aaji looked at her granddaughter, her eyes crinkling. The old woman reached out and gently wiped a smudge of flour from Meera’s cheek.

"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." Aaji looked at her granddaughter, her eyes crinkling

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. "You are strangling him

Outside, the auto-rickshaw honked again. The dog barked. Mumbai whirred back to life. But inside, for just a moment, the heart of India—its unshakeable, chaotic, beautiful core—beat in perfect, silent rhythm. The small, clay idol of Ganesh arrived, painted