He feels at home in this circle of talk, eating biryani in a cafe with family and their friends. Old turns of phrase in the other language he has rarely used in many months come back to his tongue as if they were always there, just like the spicy tang of mirch ka salan that he spoons over rice and meat. And yet, like the face that keeps changing in the blistered mirror every year, there are pieces of him that are foreign, if not foreign, strange here, if not strange, untranslatable here. There seems to be no clear method from palm and fingers to knife and fork, even though both these routes of eating lead to contentment.

So later, walking down a tree lined street, when his sister quizzes him regarding his mysterious travel plans, he avoids her eye, and mumbles, "it was about a girl", as they turn around a street corner, unwilling to muddle the contentment of his heart with explanations.