The day doesn’t begin with an alarm in the Sharma household. It begins with the clang of steel vessels from the kitchen and the low, rhythmic grinding of a wet-grinder making idli batter. Savita Sharma, the matriarch, is already awake. She has a superpower: she can roll out fifty chapatis before the rest of the city even yawns.

The scooter is parked. The dishes are washed. The aunties have gone home. Rajendra checks that the main door is locked three times. Savita folds the last of the laundry. Rohan is asleep, clutching a toy truck.

In the dark, the Sharma family breathes together—a small, noisy, resilient republic. They will wake up tomorrow and fight over the bathroom, the chai, and the remote control.

Her husband, Rajendra, is on the terrace, doing his Surya Namaskar (sun salutations) with a fervor that belies his 58 years. He returns inside, not to rest, but to grab the newspaper before the vegetable vendor downstairs starts yelling “ Bhindi! Bhindi! ” into a megaphone.

She calls Vikram. “Beta, did you eat?” “Yes, Maa.” “What did you eat?” “The… thing. From the tiffin.” “Did you eat the dahi (yogurt)? It’s 110 degrees outside!” “Yes, Maa.”

And they wouldn’t have it any other way.