Her granddaughter, Aisha, is home from university in Melbourne. She is perched on a stool, wearing ripped jeans and a t-shirt that says “Namaste in Moderation.” In her hand is not a cup of chai, but a sleek laptop.

Aisha walks from the kitchen to the balcony—five steps. The fabric breathes with her. The gold border catches the Delhi sun.

For the ghost of the girl in London. For the granddaughter in Melbourne. For the old woman on Gulab Singh Street who knows that culture isn’t a thing you post.

Meera laughs—a low, throaty sound that rattles the steel tumblers. “You want to put an old woman’s ghar ka khana on the internet? For what? Likes?”