“Who is that plate for?” Mihir asked.

Aaji was placing a small steel plate near the tulsi. Rice. Dal. A spoon of kheer. The plate had a dent on one edge.

Mihir knew that dent. It was Ajoba’s plate.

“For Ajoba,” Aaji said.

Mihir’s throat felt tight. Ajoba had died in March.

“But he is gone,” he said. “He cannot eat it.”

“I know.”

“Then why do it?” His voice came out louder than he wanted. “It is only food, Aaji. Ajoba isn’t coming back.”

Aaji did not scold him. She sat down on the step, slowly.

“These are the days of Pitru Paksha,” she said. “A time when we remember and honour those who came before us.”

She looked at her hands.

“For forty-five years, I cooked for him every morning. Then March came, and I stood in the kitchen and did not know who to cook for.”

She paused.

“I still make too much rice. My hands do not know how to stop.”

Mihir said nothing.

“This is where I put it,” Aaji said softly. “All the love my hands still want to give.”

Mihir looked at the dented plate. He remembered Ajoba at the table, every Sunday, with a bowl of kheer. Ajoba always ate slowly. And he always pushed the last spoon across to Mihir.

“Eat, eat. I am full.”

He was never full.

Mihir ran to the kitchen. He came back with his own bowl of kheer, still warm. He had not taken one bite.

He knelt beside the plate. With the big spoon, he scooped half of his kheer and set it down carefully.

“Ajoba always gave me the last spoon,” he whispered. “Now I am giving it back.”

Aaji’s hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders shook, but she was smiling too.

Mihir sat beside her. She pulled him close and held on.

Steam rose from the dented plate, thin and slow, in the morning light.

For a moment, the whole balcony smelled like Sunday.