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"Did you see the electric bill?" he asks, not looking up.

“The guest room looks like a godown!” Savita wails, opening a door that unleashes an avalanche of old school books, unused gym equipment, and a sewing machine from 1995.

Riya yells up the stairs. No response. She yells again. A grunt. Then, the heavy footsteps of Anil Sharma, a man who believes silence is the highest form of communication. He walks past his daughter, mutters "Chai," and settles into his armchair with the newspaper. The headlines scream about politics; his real battle is closer to home.