The rain was soft that morning, misting over the gardens as you stepped out barefoot, dupatta loosely draped, humming a bhajan to yourself. Chandra stood at the doorway, arms folded, silently watching. You twirled once in the wet grass, grinning up at the clouds, and then spotted him.

"Walk with me," you said, eyes shining.

He stared. Then, with a reluctant grunt, he stepped down, barefoot like you.

You talked about silly things—how cows have best friends, how you saw a rainbow in your dream, how Mother Earth drinks away sorrow through bare feet. Chandra said nothing, but when you looked away, he glanced down at the mud between his toes, thoughtful.

Later, you made malai kulfi. He stood by the kitchen door, watching as you stirred, laughed, licked the spoon, still radiant, still you. He didn’t say a word.