Daily life revolves around "up-down." A child running downstairs to ask Grandma for ₹20 for a candy. The bhabhi (sister-in-law) sending a WhatsApp text to the first floor: "Didi, ginger khatam ho gayi, upar se le lo?" (Sister, we ran out of ginger, can I take it from your floor?)

And then, just before the lights go out, the mother walks into the son's room, tucks the mosquito net under the mattress, kisses his forehead, and whispers, "Kal subah jaldi uthna, beta." (Wake up early tomorrow, son.)

The 1st of every month is "Moneymoon." Salaries come in; bills go out. The father pays the school fees, the mother buys 20 kilos of wheat and rice, and whatever is left goes into the "FD" (Fixed Deposit)—the golden calf of the Indian middle class.

The daily stories during festivals are about "Mithai" (sweets). Aunties judge each other on the quality of their homemade laddoos . Uncles try to one-up each other with the size of the firecracker budget. Children run around with sticky fingers, high on sugar and freedom.

Ten years ago, the family ate together, chattering about the day. Today, the scene is fractured. The son is watching American YouTubers on his phone. The daughter is fighting with her friends on Instagram. The father is scrolling through WhatsApp forwards (mostly fake news about cow vigilantes or miraculous cures for diabetes). The grandmother sits in silence, because no one is listening to her story about 1971 anymore.