The pantry smells heavier at night.
Not cleaner—just thicker. Butter leaves a warmth in the air that doesn't drift away, clinging to the wooden shelves and the gunny sacks stacked against the wall. The smell comes from places the eye doesn't reach easily: the insides of tins, the undersides of lids, fingerprints that have learned how to stay.
Vipin wakes because his stomach tightens, not because of sound.
He lies still for a while, breathing shallowly, letting the hunger settle into something he can measure. The ceiling fan doesn't move. Somewhere in the courtyard, a cow shifts its weight and stamps once, anklets clicking softly. The house sleeps with the patience of something used to waking early.
His mouth tastes of nothing.
He slides off the cot carefully, feet finding the cool floor without the clumsy slap that used to give him away. His body has learned at least this much: move slowly, or don't move at all. He pauses at the doorway, listening. A cough, distant. The scrape of a match. Silence again.
The pantry door is open.
Dadi sits on the low wooden stool, her shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders. Her back is straight. The brass tumbler rests in her hand, its surface dulled by years of use, catching the oil lamp's light like something worn smooth by repetition.
She doesn't look up when he enters.
"You're awake early," she says, as if he has simply woken before the others, not hours too soon.
"Yes," Vipin replies.
The word barely leaves his mouth before his stomach betrays him, a low sound he can't stop.
Dadi's lips curve—not toward him, but toward the tumbler. "It's always the stomach that speaks first," she says. "The mouth learns manners later."
She dips the tumbler into a steel bowl and lifts it slowly. A thick layer of malai clings to the rim, resisting gravity. The milk beneath it looks secondary, almost an excuse.
She sets the tumbler on the shelf between them.
"Drink."
Vipin doesn't move.
The image of his mother's diluted milk rises uninvited: the water jug, the careful pour, the way she had turned her face slightly so he wouldn't see. His hands stay at his sides.
Dadi notices the pause.
"This is not your mother's share," she says. Her voice is flat. "This is mine."
The words don't soften the weight in his chest. They redirect it.
"I didn't do anything," he says. Not defensively. Precisely.
Dadi's eyes sharpen a fraction. "You sat," she says. "You listened. You brought water without spilling it. You massaged my knees without being told when to stop."
She leans back slightly, testing the joints. "In this house, nothing arrives by accident."
Vipin lifts the tumbler with both hands.
It's heavier than the steel glasses used at meals, heavier even than the clay cups passed around in summer. His wrists protest immediately, a thin ache running up his forearms. He steadies himself and drinks.
The malai touches his upper lip first—warm, thick. The taste spreads across his tongue, dulling the sharp edge of hunger not by filling it, but by quieting it. He drinks without stopping, careful not to spill a drop.
Halfway through, heat blooms in his chest.
Not panic. Not fever. Something steadier. His shoulders loosen. His breathing deepens without effort. The constant ache beneath his ribs eases, not gone but pushed further back.
By the time he finishes, his hands are trembling.
Dadi takes the tumbler from him and sets it aside, upside down. She doesn't wipe it. She doesn't look at it again.
"Sit," she says, pointing to the low step near the doorway. "Let it settle."
Vipin lowers himself carefully. The floor presses into him differently now—not softer, but more present. His knees still ache, but the pain has a boundary. When he swallows, it doesn't hurt.
Dadi watches from the corner of her eye. "Drink slowly next time," she says. "Speed is for thieves."
"I didn't spill."
"That's what you noticed?" she asks. "Not the shaking?"
Vipin looks down. His hands have steadied, fingers no longer twitching.
"I can use it," he says quietly.
"Use what?"
"The food."
Dadi studies him for a moment. "Everyone says that," she says. "Very few mean it."
She adjusts the oil lamp, steadying the flame. The pantry looks fuller in the clearer light, more orderly. Control reveals itself when seen properly.
"Tomorrow," she says, "you'll help your Tauji in the field. Not because you're strong. Because you're small and don't break the crop."
Vipin nods.
"And when you come back," she adds, "you'll sit with me again. If you remember to wash your hands."
"Yes."
"Good."
No praise follows. No explanation.
As the house begins to stir, Dadi rises with a soft grunt and leans briefly against the shelf. Vipin is on his feet at once, offering his shoulder without thinking. She takes it without comment.
That is the rule, then. Earn. Receive. Use. Quietly. Immediately.
They step into the courtyard together. The sky has begun to pale, light touching the tops of the walls. A bird calls once, tentative.
Vipin breathes in deeply. The air moves through him more easily. He holds it a fraction longer than usual, then lets it out.
The warmth spreads, slow and deliberate.
This isn't indulgence.
This isn't affection.
This is fuel.
And for the first time since waking in this body, it answers—not with collapse, not with protest, but with something steady enough to build on.