Neha smiled. This was a language of love. Not “I love you,” but “You forgot the oil.”

No one asked how she knew which boy had no mother. In an Indian family, Grandmothers just knew .

“Canteen food. Don’t ask.”

Tomorrow, she would wake up to the tap of the walking stick. Tomorrow, she would forget to buy the oil again. Tomorrow, at 5:00 PM, the kettle would whistle, and they would all gather.

This was the sacred hour. The sun turned orange. The traffic outside became a dull roar. And the kettle began to whistle.

The family squeezed onto the old sofa. There was no air conditioning, only a ceiling fan that wobbled dangerously. They passed around pakoras (onion fritters) on a newspaper sheet. The TV blared a soap opera where a woman in a heavy silk saree was crying because her husband didn’t remember her birthday.

After dinner, the battle for the remote control began. Neha wanted a dance reality show. Rohan wanted cartoons. Vikram wanted the news. They settled on a Ramayan rerun, which put everyone to sleep except Grandma.

One by one, they arrived.