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At 10 PM, the last guest left. The flat was a mess of paper plates and sticky fingerprints. Meera’s back ached, and her kurti had a grease stain on it. She flopped down next to Aaji, exhausted.

"Did you put the adrak (ginger) in, Aaji?" Meera mumbled, shuffling into the kitchen in her worn-out chappals. At 10 PM, the last guest left

As they worked, the air filled with stories. Aaji told of the Ganesh festival in her village, where the idols were made of clay from the riverbank and dissolved back into the same water. Nalini told of her own childhood in Pune, of the ten days of non-stop aarti and the massive processions. She flopped down next to Aaji, exhausted

Meera’s phone buzzed with a work message. She silenced it. Aaji told of the Ganesh festival in her

By noon, the flat smelled of warm sugar and fried dough. Thirty perfect modaks sat on a banana leaf, glistening. The small, clay idol of Ganesh arrived, painted a cheerful pink, with eyes that seemed to hold a gentle, knowing secret.