Tushar Mangl Media

The okra needed another few minutes before it crisped properly. I kept the flame low and pressed the pieces down with the spatula every now and then while the dal reheated beside it. Outside, someone in the next building was dragging plastic chairs across a balcony. The sound came in short bursts through the open kitchen window. Sanchi was sitting at the table with one knee folded under her, tearing open the paper packet from the bakery near her office. “They’ve reduced the paneer again,” she said. “At this point it’s just hot onion.” She pushed the box toward me. The top puff had cracked near one corner. Oil had marked the paper underneath in uneven circles. “You still bought six.” “They had a buy-one-get-one thing.” “You always say that.” “They always have one.” I turned the okra once more. She had already eaten half a puff before I sat down properly. Sanchi ate fast even when there was no reason to. Not messy exactly. Just efficiently, as though meals were interruptions she...