Two months. Sixty-one nights of Rajveer lying on his charpai in the outer wing, fists clenched around nothing, counting heartbeats like a man counting bullets.

Kesar had flowered after the birth the way parched earth flowers after the first monsoon. Her waist had come back, but softer now, curved like a river bend. Her hips had widened into something a man could grip and never want to let go. Her breasts were heavy with milk, straining against every blouse she wore, a faint damp patch sometimes blooming at the nipples when the baby cried from another room.