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But the evening was the most sacred hour. As the sun turned the Aravalli hills the color of saffron, Meera sat on the aangan (courtyard) floor. Her mother was teaching her a new kashidakari embroidery stitch—a fading art from her ancestral village in Punjab. Their fingers moved in silence. Then, her mother spoke softly. "You know, when I was your age, I was afraid to leave the house without my dupatta covering my head. You leave for Goa in shorts. And I am proud."

Before sleep, she kissed Kavya’s forehead. “You can be anything,” she whispered. “A dancer, a coder, a home-maker, a president. But never forget the diya , Kavya. It’s the light that shows you where home is.” But the evening was the most sacred hour