“It was winter in Multan. The sun was low, and the air was thick with the scent of roasting almonds and saffron milk. My grandmother sat cross-legged on the veranda, sorting figs with henna-stained fingers. Everything was done by hand. With care. With memory. Dry fruits weren’t just food — they were offerings. To guests, to gods, to the body. Walnuts wrapped in muslin, dates softened with ghee, pistachios tucked into clay pots. This was not indulgence. This was tradition. A slow, fragrant ritual of love.”