“Yes, Maa,” Kavya chirped.

Behind her, Aryan shuffled in, defeated. “And I failed my chemistry practical.”

That evening, the family converged in the living room. The TV was on, playing the evening news, but no one was watching. Rajiv was helping Aryan balance a chemical equation. Kavya was showing Sharadha Ji her medal, explaining the word “antidisestablishment.” Meena sat on the floor, her legs folded, cutting fresh coriander for the night’s dinner— paneer butter masala and fresh rotis .

“I’ll drop them,” Rajiv said, kissing Meena on the top of her head. “You rest for a bit.”

She thought of the chaos, the noise, the endless lists. The daily grind of chai , parathas , school runs, and spice boxes. Some might call it monotonous. But as she listened to the faint sound of Rajiv humming an old Kishore Kumar song from the next room, Meena smiled.

“Chai is getting cold, Aryan,” Meena called out, not looking up from the four parathas she was flipping on the tawa . “And Kavya, did you put a spare mask in your bag? The pollution has been bad.”

Rajiv lowered his paper. “Your mother’s chai is perfect. Drink it or leave it.”

“Good. You’re learning.”

Tomorrow, the alarm would ring again. And she would do it all over again. Happily.