The stone was smooth from years of use. Her grandmother had used it. Her mother had used it. And now, twenty-three years into her marriage, the stone bore the marks of Lakshmi's hands too — a slight depression in the center, polished to a sheen that reflected the dim kitchen light.
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The batter would ferment through the day. By evening, it would have risen, swollen with air and life, smelling faintly sour, the way the earth smells after the first rain.