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This was the ritual. While the rest of the city slept, the two of them sat cross-legged on the cool stone floor, sipping the sweet, spicy tea from small glass cups. The first sip was a scalding, fragrant punch to the senses—the true alarm clock of an Indian home.

At 10 PM, the last guest left. The flat was a mess of paper plates and sticky fingerprints. Meera’s back ached, and her kurti had a grease stain on it. She flopped down next to Aaji, exhausted. This was the ritual

Meera groaned. "Aaji, I have a deadline." sipping the sweet