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Aaji looked at her granddaughter, her eyes crinkling. The old woman reached out and gently wiped a smudge of flour from Meera’s cheek.

"Because," she said, "the god doesn't care about the modak . He comes home for this." Aaji looked at her granddaughter, her eyes crinkling

"Did you put the adrak (ginger) in, Aaji?" Meera mumbled, shuffling into the kitchen in her worn-out chappals. He comes home for this

The evening was a crescendo. The aarti began as the sun set. Meera rang the brass bell, the sharp tring cutting through the rhythmic chanting. Her father lit the camphor, the flame flaring bright and pure. They placed the modaks as an offering, and as they sang, the lines between the mundane and the sacred blurred. Meera rang the brass bell, the sharp tring

Meera smiled. "Then why do we do it?"

"You have a life," the old woman corrected. "The god is coming home. We must prepare his modak (sweet dumplings)."