The evening brought the tide back in. Anjali returned, throwing her shoes in opposite directions, narrating a dramatic tale of a lost library book and a mean class monitor. Aarav came home an hour later, silent, but left his bedroom door open—his way of saying I’m here, but don’t ask about the physics test . Rajiv arrived with a bag of sev and news of a promotion that might transfer them to Nagpur. The sentence hung in the air. Nagpur. Meena’s hand paused over the dal pot. Anjali’s story stopped. Aarav’s door creaked open an inch.

By 6:15, the kitchen was a symphony of soft clangs. She pressure-cooked lentils for the afternoon meal and sliced green chilies for the tadka —the tempering of mustard seeds and curry leaves that would wake up the household. Her husband, Rajiv, a government bank manager, shuffled in, newspaper already tucked under his arm. He didn't ask for tea; he simply raised an eyebrow. She nodded toward the steaming cup of elaichi chai on the counter.

At 7:45, the auto-rickshaw honked twice. Anjali grabbed her bag, kissed her mother’s cheek, and ran. Aarav slouched out, his farewell a half-raised hand. Rajiv started his Activa scooter, its engine sputtering to life. For a moment, the house was silent. Meena exhaled, wiped the kitchen counter, and poured herself a second, now-cold cup of chai. This was her hour. The hour before the maid arrived, before the vegetable vendor’s cry of “ Tori, kaddu, bhindi! ” filled the lane, before the relentless negotiation of daily life resumed.