She’d slice a coconut open with a single, terrifyingly precise swing of her vazhakkai (raw plantain) knife. “Because, Harikrishnaa , my grandmother’s ghost will haunt you. Now sit. Eat.”

“Chechi? Meenakshi Chechi?” he called out, clutching his father’s introductory letter.

Harikrishnan was staying in the unused tharavadu annex. Meenakshi was tasked with feeding him. Every morning, he’d wander into her kitchen, all earnest questions and foreign ideas.

“Eat first,” she said, her voice soft. “Romance can wait until the afternoon nap.”

His fellowship ended. His father called from Kochi: a job was waiting. A life was waiting. One evening, he found her grinding spices on the large granite ammi (grinding stone).