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And as the city outside honks its final lullaby, the Sharma family exhales. Because tomorrow, at 6 AM, the symphony will begin again. New chai. Same chaos. Infinite love.

“Anything for you, gudiya .”

By 7:45 AM, the house transforms. Bags are zipped. Idli-sambar is devoured in three minutes flat. The school van honks impatiently outside. As the kids tumble out, Ajay pauses at the door. He doesn’t say “I love you.” He says, “ Dhyan se .” Carefully. And as the city outside honks its final

The evening brings the adda —the gossip session. Aunties from the building gather on the staircase (the best ventilated spot). They discuss who bought a new car, whose daughter got an IT job in Bangalore, and whether the new family on the third floor puts garam masala in their dal. (The consensus: sacrilege ).

“Beta, life is aggressive. The uniform is just maroon,” Rekha sighs, wrestling a hair ribbon onto Anjali’s head. Same chaos

Rekha, the mother, is already ten steps ahead. Her hands move on autopilot: spreading turmeric on a wound her son got yesterday, packing a lunchbox with parathas shaped like a triangle (because “square ones are boring, Mumma”), and simultaneously yelling into her phone, “No, the bhindi vendor cheats me, I’m taking the auto to the sabzi mandi today.”

Dinner is a loud, messy affair. Rice is spilled. A debate erupts over whether mango pickle is a side dish or a main character. Rohan announces he wants to be a game designer. Ajay chokes on his roti. “But you got 92% in science!” Bags are zipped

At 10:00 PM, the house settles. The mixer is silent. The chai kettle is cool. Ajay folds the newspaper into a perfect rectangle. Rekha checks that the main door is locked twice—once with her hands, once with her heart.