She laughed, the sound like a wind chime. “Go get dressed. I’ll make you aloo paratha with extra butter. No boy with a stomach ache from happiness can go to school.”

First to emerge, as always, was her husband, Rajiv. He wore his usual khadi kurta-pajama, his glasses perched on his nose, a newspaper already unfolding like a map of the world’s troubles. He took his chai to the balcony, where he would nod at the neighbor, Mr. Iyer, who was watering his own tulsi plant. They never spoke much, but a shared glance over the rising steam was a conversation in itself.

That was the magic of the Sharma house. Problems were diagnosed, solved, and sweetened with food. The next hour was a symphony of controlled frenzy. The kitchen became a command center. Renu packed Rohan’s tiffin—round, soft parathas in one compartment, a small plastic cup of ketchup in another, and a banana. She packed Rajiv’s lunch— leftover baingan bharta and three whole-wheat rotis.

Anjali and Rohan burst out laughing. Even Renu smiled. The story was old, but in this house, stories were like heirlooms. They got polished, not discarded. Rajiv returned by 7:30 PM, loosening his tie, looking tired but lighter. By 8 PM, the family was at the dining table. This was the anchor of their day. No phones. No TV.

At 10 PM, Renu lit a small diya (lamp) in the pooja room. The family gathered for five minutes. No grand prayers, just a quiet moment. Rohan whispered, “Thank you for the mango shake.” Anjali thought about her exam. Rajiv thought about a pending file. Renu thought about Arjun in Chicago, hoping he was warm.

Rohan grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. “Both.”

“Anjali, what’s your plan after college?” Rajiv asked, breaking a piece of roti. “I want to do a master’s in design. Maybe in Pune.” A pause. Pune was far. But not too far. “We’ll see,” Renu said, which in Indian parent language meant “I need to process this.” “I want to be a pilot!” Rohan announced. “Finish your murukku first, Captain Rohan,” Anjali teased. After dinner, Rohan did his homework at the dining table, Renu guiding his hand over a difficult math problem. Anjali scrolled through her phone but occasionally looked up to add a sarcastic comment. Rajiv folded the laundry, his contribution to the household peace.

Then came the slow, deliberate footsteps of the third generation. Rohan, 7 years old, stood at the kitchen door in his superhero pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Dadi, I don’t want to go to school. I have a stomach ache.”