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"Did you see the new AC you insisted on buying?" Savita retorts, sliding a cup toward him. The chai is a peace offering, but the spoon stirs old arguments. This is the family drama—fought not with swords, but with passive-aggressive silences and the clatter of steel utensils.

The Sunday alarm at the Sharma household isn't a phone chime. It’s the metallic thwack of a pressure cooker releasing steam, followed by Riya Sharma’s theatrical groan. "Maa, it’s 7 AM! Even the gods are sleeping in." "Did you see the new AC you insisted on buying

In the kitchen, Savita smiles, adding an extra dollop of ghee to his roti. The Sunday alarm at the Sharma household isn't a phone chime

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. Even the gods are sleeping in

“Then fix it,” she says.

This is the aarti —a ritual of flame and song. For five minutes, the arguments pause. The phone notifications are silenced. Even Anil closes his eyes and mouths the prayer.

“Beta, call your father for chai,” she says.