My shirt reeked of sweat and sunflower oil and flour speckled my nose with inverse freckles. I peeked across the kitchen at the chapati on the gas cooker as my hands kneaded the dough mixture mechanically. There was a small pile of harmless bugs I had picked out of the flour to the left of my compact workspace, which was framed by three variously sized containers of oil. I carefully placed the dough I was kneading outside my work space, but away from the bugs before turning to spin the cooking chapati with my palm. Spin, spin, spin – flip! A spoonful of oil, another flip, and now it’s time to knead again. An army could not have stopped me from making my chapati this morning.