Amma raised an eyebrow. "You? You burn toast."

To the three boys who played cricket with a tennis ball, he gave refills as they dripped sweat onto the pavement.

She pointed toward the eastern sky, just above the water tank on the neighboring roof. A sliver of orange was bleeding into the blue.

Rohan smiled. He remembered being seven, standing on this same balcony, watching his mother tie wet cloths over the windows. He remembered the khus (vetiver) screens that his father would hang on the door, dripping water to cool the incoming breeze. He remembered the afternoon kulfi wallah whose cart bell was sweeter than any ringtone.

The alarm screamed at 5:30 AM. In Delhi, that meant the summer had truly begun.