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Shekharan Menon opens the refrigerator and pulls out a can of Heineken from the chiller. He then walks up to the sink and opens the can. Gulping down a mouthful of the cold beer, he starts to chop the onions. Then the green chillies and finally the tomatoes. He then begins to saute the onions. The smell of oil and green onion slices mingling in the heat perfumes the kitchen. The fragrance spreads acorss the hallway into the living, climbs up and falls under and in through the door of the rooms above. Gaya opens her eyes and blinks at the ceiling. The book lies on it front on the matte floor. A few pages folded down by its weight. She picks it up and keeps it on her table. She walks down the stairway, and into the kitchen. "Acha, lunch ready?", she asks smiling at her father.
"Yes, monu another five minutes and it will be."
"Okay then I shall set the table."
The table is set. He serves the rice on two plates. She places a fish fry each on the plates. He spreads the onion rings on the fish. She pushes aside the bowl of fruit to a side of the round glass table. The spinach thoran, beet red is put on the side. Her father gets up a time or two to get some curds, to refill the water jug. They finish the lunch in silence. She then tells her father that she will put aside the dishes and wash them. That he need not bother. He walks upto the kitchen with the bowls nevertheless. He stands by the kitchen sink watching her wash the dishes. He tells her to first take off the bits of food from the plate, throw them away and then rinse off the plates. He tells her she isn't doing it right. She says something back.

By the time she finishes the chat show on television and the lengthy hours of discussion about the Nuclear deal between India and the United States of America are yet to come to end, she finds the sky outside has turned dark. The lamps on either side of the entrance gate have been lit.
She mutes the television and walks to the kitchen. She likes its openness, the easy connectivity between the living and the kitchen. She makes herself a cup of tea, dumps the tea leaf residue into the garbage can kept under the sink and leaves it in the sink.

She can smell the fragrance of sandalwood paste all of a sudden. Its the expectant smell that floats about when her father offers his prayers to the deities. He stands on the landing of the stairway and inserts a twisted white piece of cotton fabric into the lamp holder. His fingers turn the bundle into a wormy tube and then pours oil into the brass lamp. He then lights the lamp and joins his palms together in prayer.

She meanwhile finishes her cuppa and walks into the shower.