Aarav grips the steering wheel. “So we disappear a little. On our own terms.”

They live in a house with two kitchens: one vegetarian, one for dhansak (Parsi lamb curry). Their daughter is named Ariana —a name that belongs to neither clan, but to the space between.

Aarav’s mother, Vasudha, serves chokha and baingan bharta and asks Diana, “So, beta, do you celebrate all our festivals? Or only the secular ones?”

That night, in Aarav’s car, Diana doesn’t cry. She says, “They’re not wrong. Our ancestors are standing between us. Your ancestors fled a valley. Mine fled Persia. Both of us are taught: marry inside, or disappear. ”

But when Diana breaks down behind the funeral hall, he sits on the floor beside her—not hugging, not speaking—just matching his breath to hers. Later, he pulls out his sitar and plays a raga meant for evening, for loss, for the color grey.

The crisis comes when families meet.