The kitchen was warm, filled with the comforting, spicy aroma of mustard seeds and frying onions. On the granite counter, a bowl of freshly chopped bhindi (okra) sat waiting for its turn in the pan.

Sarla stood by the stove, stirring the tadka mechanically. Her hand moved in a rhythmic circle, the metal spoon scraping against the bottom of the kadhai, but her mind was miles away. It was upstairs, behind a closed bathroom door, replaying the scene from twenty minutes ago.