Lakshmi sat on. It was only five forty-five or so; she’d go home in some time and do the cooking just before they ate. Ashish would be on his way back now, or perhaps he’d already arrived, but she relinquished the thought of hurrying home to make him eat something. She had worried, at first, that he was unhappy living with them, or that he didn’t feel comfortable. He so often lurked in his own room. But then she recognised something in him: the pleasure in quietness, the curious interest in navigating his way through vast spaces of boredom. Anyway, he was quite capable in the kitchen, and if he wanted tea or a snack, knew how to help himself. His uncle would soon be home; the two of them would sit grunting at each other over sections of the newspaper or, as an adventure, make something to eat.