It was the first time she called him Unni . Not ‘Harikrishnaa.’ Not ‘city boy.’ Just Unni .

His fellowship ended. His father called from Kochi: a job was waiting. A life was waiting. One evening, he found her grinding spices on the large granite ammi (grinding stone).

The first time Harikrishnan saw her, she was up to her elbows in murky water, pulling out weeds from the lotus pond. Her mundu was hitched above her knees, her old cotton blouse clinging to her back, and her long, oiled hair was a single, heavy rope down her spine.

She raised an eyebrow. “What will you call me, then?”

“Eat first,” she said, her voice soft. “Romance can wait until the afternoon nap.”

“My home.”

Thus began the summer of their discord.

She slammed the stone down. “Because this ammi has my mother’s hands on it. This pond has my grandmother’s tears. This soil has my name written on it in a language you don’t read. Your world has a shelf life. This one is forever.”

“Chechi, why don’t you use a pressure cooker for the parippu ? It’s faster.”

“Chechi? Meenakshi Chechi?” he called out, clutching his father’s introductory letter.

He was silent. Then, he knelt beside her, took her spice-stained fingers, and pressed them to his lips. “Then let me learn the language. Let me learn to read the soil.”