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Anjali saw it as a waste of time. “Paati, why not just buy a vinyl sticker? It’s reusable. Efficient,” she said one Monday, showing her phone screen.

The next morning, Anjali stood on the cool stone threshold. She held the brass kolam pot, its nozzle heavy with wet flour. Her first line wobbled. Her second was a straight disaster.

One morning, Paati didn’t come out. She was resting, her joints aching. Anjali, on her own, drew the kolam. It wasn’t perfect. But as the sun rose, a young girl delivering newspapers stopped. “Auntie, that’s beautiful,” she said. An old man walking his dog nodded in appreciation. And a stray dog gently walked around the pattern, as if respecting the invisible lines of care.

Later, Anjali brought Paati a cup of chai —not instant, but brewed with ginger, cardamom, and patience. She sat on the floor, not on her office chair, and listened to Paati tell the story of how she learned the kolam from her grandmother during the 1965 cyclone, when drawing patterns was an act of defiance against chaos.