The father asks about the son’s marks. The daughter-in-law complains about the cost of tomatoes. The uncle, who lives on the first floor, descends to argue about the property tax receipt.

Pooja, preparing her bag for the night shift, writes a sticky note for Asha: " Maa, kal paneer mat banana. Kheer banao. " (Mom, don’t make paneer tomorrow. Make rice pudding.) It is a command, a love letter, and an assertion of her position in the hierarchy.

Cell phones are strictly banned at the table (though teenagers hide them under their thighs). The television is on, playing a soap opera where a saas (mother-in-law) is tormenting a bahu (daughter-in-law), mimicking the exact dynamics happening in the living room. Life imitates art. The house finally breathes.

Asha works with a practiced rhythm: chopping onions while yelling at her husband to turn off the fan, kneading dough while reminding her son to charge his laptop. This is the Indian morning ballet—chaotic, loud, and efficient.