“Who are these people?” Bhairavi Chitthi asked in Tamil. Her tone dripped with disapproval.

Nithya spoke in English. “Aunty, Carma, this is Salimata and her family. She’s worked with me on several projects for Synaxel. They are… they’ve come at my invitation to escape the al-Muwahhidun front in Senegal. Zeli, this is my daughter, Carma, and this is my aunt, Bhairavi.”

Zeli gave them a tired smile. “My mother, my sister, and her daughter, Mouna. Thank you for having us.”

“Hello,” Aunty said politely in English. Then, switching to Tamil, she muttered, “You’re letting these kind of people into the house at a time like this?”

Nithya’s frayed patience broke apart. She replied in Tamil, careful of Carma’s understanding and using a respectful address. “If you don’t like it, then you can go. I asked them here. I will not send them away.”

Bigotry had yet to die in India. Some people still equated dark with unclean. Bhairavi Chitthi’s casual racism was nothing new, but Nithya wouldn’t stand for it today, not in her own house. She strove to break the tension by waving to the table.

“Please, sit. Are you hungry? We don’t have much water, but there is enough if you want to wash up. Carma, see if we have any old static toys for the baby in the cupboard.”

Zeli glanced at Aunty, then back to Nithya. She straightened her shoulders. “Thank you. I’m sorry, my mother doesn’t speak English. Only Wolof.”

Without a network and WAIs to translate, it was impossible to communicate directly.

“That’s all right. What can I get you to eat?” Nithya fell back on custom to cover the awkwardness of the situation. “Some rice and lentils?”

Zeli nodded. She perched at the edge of her chair and bounced the baby. Her sister leaned against their mother, eyes closed. The bags under Zeli’s mother’s eyes could hold coins. Bhairavi Chitthi sat on a chair near the balcony and gazed at the sky.

Nithya repressed the urge to ask about Zeli’s travels. As for her aunt, Nithya wasn’t happy about her treatment of Zeli’s family, but it would be frightening for the older woman to get home alone, by foot, in this situation. She couldn’t send her away in good conscience, so she’d have to find a way to keep the peace.

Nithya scooped some rice onto three plates and a bowl—for the baby—and then mixed in the cooked dal and salt. Everything was room temperature, but that was warm enough. She remembered to get some spoons, too, in case they weren’t used to eating with their hands.

The women roused themselves to take their plates.

“Shall I hold the baby while you eat?” Nithya reached out her arms. “How old is she?”