Babita ji laughed — that melodic laugh that made Jethalal forget all poetry. "Then I'll take one. Thank you, Jetha ji."

"No. It's about… feelings." He clutched the railing. "You know, in our society, everyone thinks I'm just a businessman. But inside, I'm a poet. A romantic fool."

Mehta nodded gravely. "Very important water. Round water. Wet water."

"Jetha ji," she said quietly, "you have syrup on your collar too."

Babita ji leaned against the railing. "Go on."

As she bit into a jalebi, a drop of syrup landed on her chin. Without thinking, Jethalal reached out and wiped it with his handkerchief.

"You have?"

"Of course. The way you ask about my health. The way you send extra farsan with Tapu. The way you blush when I say your name." She smiled. "It's not poetry, Jetha ji. It's home."