Some night, drive a few miles out of town on the road that exits to the south-west. You will pass the restaurants and dhabas on the outskirts. You will soon reach the hills. After a mile or two of pitch darkness, you will see a house to your left, lit with an eerie glow. Stop there.
The door will be open. Enter. Alone. To your right will be the kitchen. That will be where the light is coming from. At the far-side wall, there will be a woodfire, and a cooking vessel on it.
Enter the kitchen and turn around. There will be a couple sitting on either side of the door, and old man and an old woman, dressed in ragged rural clothing. Sometimes they switch sides.
They will invite you to stay for dinner. The old man will reach out towards the vessel, without moving from his position on the other side of the room. At that impossible length, his arm will turn an impossible angle and stir the gravy in the vessel with his bare hand. There will be meat inside the vessel. The old woman will grace you with a kindly smile.
Don’t ask what the meat is. Don’t stay for dinner.