Later, in the forests, when Bhima complained of hunger, Kunti would tell him, “We are never hungry. He tasted our food before us. He left His footprint as a receipt.”

But before they fled, Kunti took one last look at the kitchen. The payesh pot was still on the hearth, untouched by fire. And floating on the surface of the caramelized milk was a single footprint—small, delicate, like a child’s.

“Narayan?” she whispered.

“Mother, add more jaggery. Bhima likes it sweet.”