Neeta sits alone on the sofa for the first time. She opens a small diary—the one with the faded elephant on the cover. It is not a journal of feelings. It is a log of logistics. "Electrician on Thursday. Maids’ salary on Friday. Mother-in-law’s eye checkup on Saturday."

By 2:00 PM, the house is deceptive. It looks empty. The father is at his government office, Vikram is at the library, Riya is in her PG college lab. But the bai (maid) is washing dishes in the backyard, humming a film song from the 90s.

Dinner is at 9:30 PM. Late, by Western standards. Perfect, by Indian ones. They sit on the floor in the living room—not out of tradition anymore, but because the dining table is buried under Vikram’s books. They eat with their hands. The father praises the dal .