Not for the first time, Shobi wondered about the football player who made her always cool and collected daughter stutter.

Shobi was almost certain there was something going on there. It wasn’t like the man was trying to conceal his interest—no, his wonder—when he looked at Ashna. Strangely enough, it seemed a bit like how Shobi felt when she looked at Ashna, as though the hurt at being shut out by her was a physical ache. Like Shobi had her nose pressed against glass, hungry to get into that most hallowed place that was Ashna’s heart.

Now that Shobi thought about it, Ashna seemed more than aware of it—the football player’s regard, not her mother’s. Which gave Shobi the niggling feeling that this wasn’t the first time the boy and Ashi were meeting.

She could just come out and ask. But putting Ashna on the defensive right now wasn’t the smartest strategy. She wanted to talk to her girl, just for a few minutes. Maybe even try to explain how they had ended up here on two banks of this generational river.

“What are you doing up so late?” Ashna asked too awkwardly, and Shobi thought again of the ease with which she talked to Mina. “Work?”

“Honestly? I was waiting for you to come home.”

Ashna blinked. “Um. Sorry, I didn’t . . . I’m not . . .”

“Don’t apologize. It’s just that . . . Have you eaten dinner? I made some varan bhaat.”

Now she felt stupid. Boiled rice and dal was the only thing she knew how to cook. But like her, Ashna had loved the simple comfort food as a child.

Maybe it was Shobi’s imagination, but a sparkle broke through the weariness in Ashna’s eyes. “Varan bhaat?” But she got a hold of herself. “I didn’t have ghee in the house.”

Shobi went to the kitchen and Ashna followed her with her usual tentativeness.

“I made some.” Shobi popped the two bowls she had mixed into the microwave. “Ghee, now that I know how to make. I used to love the smell when our cook made it when I was little. So she showed me how to. Of course, she used to churn the butter from the cream first; I just walked down to the store and bought butter.” Shobi put the bowl of rice and lentils mixed in with ghee and fresh lemon juice in front of Ashi.

For the next few minutes—the first peaceful minutes she’d shared with her daughter since she’d arrived—the two of them ate, letting the sticky, wholesome goodness melt on their tongues and stick to their palates and fill their mouths with that internal hug of a cherished comfort food.

“This is good, Shobi, thank you— I mean, Mom. Thank you.” Ashna blushed and bent her head over the bowl to hide her embarrassment at the slip.