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In Chanderi, Meera’s day had a tala —a rhythm. She woke before the sun, drew a rangoli on the cool stone threshold, the coloured rice powder bleeding into a lotus pattern. She walked to the temple with her neighbour, Shanti, their slippers squeaking on the dew-damp path. She churned fresh butter from the local milkman’s buffalo, the heavy wooden churner a meditation. She made rotis on a clay stove, the smoke mingling with the incense.

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