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By 10 AM, the drama escalates. The cousin from America has announced an unannounced visit next week. Panic ensues.

In the kitchen, Savita Sharma is orchestrating a symphony. She measures tea leaves into a bubbling pan of milk, ginger, and cardamom. Her sari pallu is tucked securely into her waist, and her eyes track three things at once: the parathas on the tawa, the rising dough for evening snacks, and the simmering tension between her husband and son. By 10 AM, the drama escalates

Riya looks up from her phone, caught between two generations. She sighs, puts her phone down, and holds the ladder. For ten minutes, father and daughter work in sync—no words, just the sound of a wrench turning. When the fan hums smoothly, Anil pats Riya’s head. Just once. Just lightly. But it says: You are still my little girl. In the kitchen, Savita Sharma is orchestrating a symphony

As dusk falls, the colony’s temple bells ring. Savita lights the diya. The incense smoke curls through the living room, wrapping around the unmade sofa, the Amazon packages on the dining table, and the homework spread across the floor. Riya looks up from her phone, caught between two generations

“The fan in the hall is making noise,” he says.