I was but seven, the only child of loving parents. Then a craft carrying my father and mother home from market capsized and in a flash I was an orphan. The childless sweet-maker in our village took me in and put me to work right away, teaching me how to keep goats’ milk from sticking to the bottom of his vats as it boiled down into scrumptious khoa.” Hariaksa threw her a lopsided grin. “And does not everything happen for the best, sweetling? You see, it was in that smoky kitchen—with its cauldrons of bubbling milk, golden honey, nuts, ghee and a multitude of other delectable flavorings—that I learnt to rustle up the sweets you girls devour.”

“What were you like then?” she asked curiously.

“Just as short and round as I am now,” Hariaksa chortled, &ldquo...

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