By 7 PM, the house is exhausted but alive again. The TV is blaring a Saas-Bahu rerun that nobody is watching. The phone is ringing with a call from that uncle in Canada who asks the same three questions every week: “Weather kaisa hai? Khana khaya? Job kaisi chal rahi?”

But now, at 30, living away from home for work, I miss it desperately.

Dinner is a loud affair. We eat with our hands, sitting on the floor if it’s a special thali night. We fight over the last piece of achaar . We discuss politics, weddings, and why the mangoes this year are not sweet enough.

Let me paint you a picture.

We don’t do a “drop-off line” here. We do the auto-rickshaw hustle. My niece, who is 8, has perfected the art of getting ready in 90 seconds flat. Hair tie in her mouth, socks mismatched, she stands at the gate with the negotiation skills of a CEO. “Didi, if you get me a chocolate today , I will finish my homework before TV tomorrow .”

In a household of six people and two bathrooms, the first hour is a game of strategy. My brother, who believes showers are a suggestion, not a requirement, is banging on the door. “Bhaiya! Some of us have a train to catch!” Meanwhile, my Dadi (grandmother) is already done with her prayers, having woken up at 5 AM, and is sitting on her rocking chair, calmly assigning blame. “You all should sleep earlier. In my time…”