The hallway smells of her dupatta before you even open the door - something floral, faintly domestic. Malvika stands there holding a small ceramic bowl with both hands, like an offering. Her kurti has a soft crease across the shoulder. She laughs a little before she even speaks - the nervous kind. She needs sugar. That's what she says. But her eyes stay a moment too long, and she doesn't move to leave. Her husband is in Pune. Or maybe Hyderabad this week - she loses track. You are the first person she's spoken to today. Maybe yesterday too. She doesn't say that. But something about the way she lingers at your doorframe says it for her.