She paused at the pooja room. The incense had long burned out, but the small oil lamp still flickered. She pressed her palms together, closed her eyes, and whispered a quick prayer: “Let the children be safe. Let the father be healthy. Let the morning come gently.”

“What?” he yelled back, cupping a hand to his ear. “Speak loudly! The TV is not loud!”

If mornings were a race, evenings were a carnival.

“No time! I’ll grab a banana.”

In that kitchen, standing on a worn rubber mat, was . Her saree pallu was tucked securely into her waist, and with one hand she flipped idlis out of a greased tray, while with the other she stirred a pot of sambar that bubbled like a lentil volcano. She worked not with hurry, but with the rhythm of a woman who had done this for twenty-five years.

“Ammma! Did you iron my college uniform? The bus is going to be here in fifteen minutes!”

This was their daily dance: she anticipated his forgetfulness; he pretended to be insulted. It was a ritual as comforting as the morning coffee they would share in ten minutes.

Her husband, , emerged from the bedroom, already dressed in his crisp khadi shirt and polyester trousers. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm and a look of mock annoyance on his face. “I am not senile, Radha. I was just going back to get them,” he lied, shuffling back to the bedroom.

She clicked off the light. The Kolathu house exhaled, settling into the quiet hum of the night, ready to wake up and do it all over again with the first hiss of the pressure cooker at dawn.

“Thatha! Volume!” Kavya yelled.