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For thirty-two years, Meera had worn her roles like the layers of a cotton saree: daughter, wife, mother, daughter-in-law. Her life was a symphony of sindoor in her hair parting, the clink of steel tiffins being packed, and the careful management of family egos during evening tea. Her world was the inner courtyard, where secrets were whispered, and the kitchen, where spices were ground into pastes that held the family together.

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Meera looked at him—her kind, traditional, bewildered husband. "The batter is soaking," she said softly. "And the client is asking for a quote. They love the story of the blue pottery workshop. They want to sponsor a series." For thirty-two years, Meera had worn her roles