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“And the dry cleaner closes at 8. So you’ll manage.”

“Look at this girl,” Dadiji clucked, without looking up. “Walking like a zombie. In my time, we bathed before sunrise and lit the diya .”

Her grandmother, Dadiji , was already there, sitting on a low plastic stool, shelling peas into a steel bowl. She didn’t need coffee. At 78, she ran on pure, unfiltered stubbornness and the thrill of watching the morning soap opera’s recap.

But as Riya leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder, the smell of coconut oil and kajal filling her senses, she realized something.

Just then, Mr. Mehta emerged, newspaper under his arm, already dressed in his crisp white shirt. He was a man of routine. Tea, paper, toilet, train. If any of those four things went out of order, the universe felt off.

“Mum, I have a project submission tomorrow!”

“Good morning, Dadiji,” Riya mumbled, kissing the top of the old woman’s head.

Riya sighed. It was the tenth “new rule” this month. She stumbled out, hair a bird’s nest, and shuffled toward the kitchen.

In the West, they talked about “finding yourself.” In the Mehta household, you didn’t have to. You were buried under ten layers of “ Beta, eat ,” “ Where are you going? ” and “ Call me when you reach .” You were never lost. You were just... home.