“Mira, go get the besan and haldi,” her mother instructed. “If it’s raining this hard, no one is going to the market. We’ll make pakoras .”
“Good omen,” he said, taking a sip. “The farmer’s heart will sing today.”
Mira padded barefoot onto the cold marble verandah. Her father, Ajay, was already there, a chai in one hand, the newspaper in the other. He wasn’t reading it, though. He was just watching the rain lash against the red clay pots of tulsi.
EN 
ES 
FR 
AR 
JA 
KO 
RU 
DE 
PT 
IT 
TR