Sona took the pot from her hands. “I’ll take this one,” she said. “To remember.” “ Jethani devrani ek kuaan ka paani, alag alag ghaat. ” (Co-wives in law are water from the same well, but they draw from different banks.)

They did not embrace. They did not need to. The quotes between them had become a language deeper than touch. Every sharp word, every bitter proverb, every cracked-pot confession—it was all love, twisted by circumstance, aged by silence, but love nonetheless.

Sona looked at her—really looked. The gray in her hair. The stoop in her shoulders. The twelve years of fire she had carried alone before Sona arrived.

It was the most honest thing she had ever said. She wasn’t talking about the pot. She was talking about them—about how they had bruised each other, but still held something essential.

The well had two banks. But the water was the same. It always had been.

“ Toota ghada bhi paani bhar leta hai, ” Devki said quietly. “But the clay never forgets the break.”

Devki’s eyes glistened. “Because I never learned.”