“Mum, why don’t you and Dadi talk?”

So Anjali does something unthinkable for her generation — she calls her grandmother. Not a text. A call.

Dadi’s kitchen is a museum of smells: kewra water, aged hing , brass spoons. The recipe isn’t just ingredients — it’s a ritual.

Anjali snaps. “I don’t care what bua says. This is my wedding.”