The first kitchen was barely a kitchen at all: a two-plate stove, a window that looked onto a wall, and a tin of spices that had travelled further than anyone in the family. My grandmother was nine. She was allowed to stir, and only to stir. Her mother cooked the way other people prayed, without looking, without hurrying, certain that what she was doing mattered. Nasreen watched every pinch and every pause. Years later she would say that she learned to read from the labels on those tins. That kitchen is gone now, painted bright green and rented to tourists. I went to see it once. The window still looks onto the wall.