At the market, Deepa and Bala navigated through cyclists, small children tugging on their mothers’ saris, carts dripping with yellow, white, red flower garlands. The acidic aroma of chilies infused the air. Food vendors stood in the shade, fanned themselves with newspapers.

Deepa brought the samosa to her mouth, folded down the brown paper around it, bit into the corner. Steam poured out of the aperture, burned her upper lip. She rubbed it with the tip of her tongue.

Bala tore ahead to forage for the family’s meal. She was short, squat, but carried herself with such authority, such purpose, she seemed at least a meter taller than she really was. “Stop dawdling,” she chided. She scrunched her doughy face. “I don’t want to be here all day.”

Deepa blew inside the pastry several times, shoved the rest of the samosa in her mouth, licked her fingers.

Finger-like buds of green okra blanketed a wooden cart. Bala approached it with suspicion, as she did all of the vendors’ bounty. She picked one up, squinted, set it down. As she scanned the rest, she wrinkled her nose, turned away. Shopping with Bala was a far more arduous errand than Deepa had imagined, one she had become intimately familiar with ever since her parents quit allowing her go to the clinic in the afternoons.

Deepa rested her chin on Bala’s shoulder. “I’m tired. Can’t I just wait at home while you shop?”

“Eh. If you come quickly, we’ll finish sooner.”

Since her parents forbade Deepa from going to the clinic, she had become Bala’s charge. She was forbidden from visiting friends alone, forbidden from strolling through the park, forbidden from even walking to the end of the street to purchase a daily paper. Bala chaperoned and monitored her every activity.

Bala’s chappals slapped the dirt and left dusty clouds in her wake. She paused at the edge of a faded indigo blanket, lining her chappals along the border. A woman with streaks of white hair squatted behind it. Her crossed arms rested on her knees. The thin silver rings on her toes peeked out from her sari’s petticoat. Star fruit, mangoes, and guavas were arranged in neat rows in front of her, their greens and yellows so bright they glowed. Deepa’s mouth watered. She imagined the sweet juice of a mango coating her mouth, dripping along her chin.

As if reading her mind, Bala pointed to the mangoes. “Are they ripe?”

The woman held out the yellow-green fruit in her hand. “You see yourself.”

Bala’s fingertips lightly compressed the skin. She touched it to the tip of her nose, sniffed, rotated it in her hand, sniffed again.

Deepa sighed and shifted her weight. Just purchase it. Bala spent as much time diagnosing the ripeness of produce as Papa-ji did diagnosing the condition of a patient.