At the corner table, an old Tamil grandfather taught his grandson how to eat idiyappam —string hoppers—without breaking the delicate noodles. "Slowly," he whispered. "Like you are combing your grandmother's hair."

The heat in Dubai that October was a living thing, pressing against the glass of Arun Restaurant and Cafe like a stray cat begging to be let in. Inside, the air was a perfect 22 degrees Celsius, carrying the scent of cardamom, fresh filter coffee, and something deeper—sambar podiyi roasted that morning.

She nodded. "I am from Chennai. My son... he just moved here for work. I came to visit. But he is in a meeting until 8 PM. I didn't know where to go."

Today, a woman walked in. She was in her fifties, dressed in a crisp cotton salwar kameez, her gray hair pulled back. She looked at the menu board for a long time, her lips moving silently.