She nods. She goes inside. She fills a glass of water for Bauji’s morning pills, puts the leftover bhindi into a steel container, and sets the alarm for 5:30 AM.

"Haan," he says. "Dekhte hain." (We’ll see.)

He looks at her—really looks—for the first time in weeks. The streetlight catches the grey in her hair, the turmeric stain on her thumb, the exhaustion behind her eyes.

In the Indian family dictionary, "Dekhte hain" is not a promise. It is a pause button. It means not tonight, but I heard you .

"Hum log. Kahi chalein. Bas do din." (We should go somewhere. Just two days.)

7 PM. Rajeev arrives, loosening his tie. He stands at the kitchen doorway, not entering—never entering—and says the ritual words: "Rekha, thoda paani."

Tomorrow, the kettle will whistle again. The bell will ring again. The chai will spill again.

"Nahi. Aankh mein jalan thi." (No. Eyes were burning.) Translation: I needed one day where I didn't have to explain myself to my manager. 5 PM. The gate creaks. Nidhi comes first, throwing her college bag on the sofa and immediately pulling out her laptop. "Maa, I have a group meeting in ten minutes. Can you bring me chai?"