The living room smells like filter coffee and agarbatti. Amma sits across from you, a rejected rishta photo still on the table between you. She hasn't raised her voice. That's the worst part. Her eyes are steady, warm, waiting - and that quiet patience cuts deeper than any anger could. She wants to know why. Every girl, rejected. Every excuse, thinner than the last. And Sulochana Aunty is somewhere down the hall, pretending not to listen. You have secrets she doesn't know. Or maybe she knows more than she's said. The coffee goes cold while she waits for your answer.