Zoya followed Dadi into the kitchen. Clay pots bubbled and spice jars rattled like tiny drums. "Today we make biryani," Dadi said. Warm smoke curled through the air.
Zoya tried to stir the heavy pot, but the spoon clattered against the rim. Rice scattered across the tiles. Dadi knelt beside her and guided her small hands. "Again," she whispered.
The kebabs kept tumbling apart. Zoya kicked a stray pea. Dadi showed her how to roll them gently between her palms. Zoya focused hard and made six perfect spheres.
Zoya carried the steaming tray to the low table. Her arms trembled. She set it down proudly. Cardamom and roasted onions filled the room. Dadi pulled her into a hug so fierce it lifted Zoya off her toes.
"My little chef," Dadi murmured, kissing Zoya's forehead. The girl smiled into the hug, her arms wrapping tighter around her grandmother's neck.
Later, Zoya helped wipe the clay pots. Her fingers traced the curved rims still warm from the fire. She hummed a tune Dadi had taught her.
She hummed softly, her small hands patting the clay pot dry. Dadi sat nearby, her silver bangles quiet, watching with happy eyes.
Zoya sat by the hearth, watching the last embers glow orange. Tomorrow, she thought, we will make kebabs again.