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Everyone scrambled. The kitchen was a symphony of overlapping instructions, laughter, and the occasional crash as Rohan tried to help and instead knocked over the spice rack, sending turmeric powder flying like yellow snow.

“But Maa, my client—” Priya started.

Rohan kissed his mother’s forehead, ignoring the jab. He was the family’s chaos agent, an architect who dreamed of buildings but spent his days designing parking lots. He tossed a bright pink box to Kavya. “For you. Jalebi . Don’t tell your father.”

The peace shattered as Kavya emerged. She was seventeen, wrapped in a oversized hoodie and a frown. Her hair was a waterfall of messy waves, and her eyes were glued to a phone that seemed fused to her palm.

“Chai, beta?” Meera called out, not as a question, but as a decree.

“Vikram, your mother’s blood pressure medicine is on the counter. Rohan, the electrician is coming at 5 p.m. to fix the geyser. Kavya, your permission slip for the debate is in the blue folder. I signed it, but I hid your phone under the couch cushion as a hostage until you put it in your bag.”

Vikram put his arm around Priya. Rohan stole a piece of roti from Kavya’s plate. And for a moment, the chaos of Indian life—the noise, the heat, the constant negotiation between tradition and tomorrow—felt less like a burden and more like a prayer.

Just then, the front door burst open. Rohan, Vikram’s younger brother, breezed in carrying two large bags of vegetables. “Traffic is a nightmare! I left office two hours ago. Two hours! I could have walked to Chandigarh and back.”

“Uncle, you are my favorite person in this house,” Kavya said, finally putting her phone down.

They sat. The four of them—Vikram, Priya, Rohan, and Kavya—squeezed onto the wooden bench in the kitchen. Meera served them, one by one. Hot roti , white butter melting at the edges, the leftover aloo sabzi from last night, and a tiny piece of pickle. No one ate alone. No one ate first. They ate together .

“He was blocking the sunlight to my tulsi plant,” Meera said with a shrug. “A garden requires discipline.”

Meera threw a dishcloth at her, but she was laughing. That was the law of the house: insults wrapped in love.