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As they worked, the air filled with stories. Aaji told of the Ganesh festival in her village, where the idols were made of clay from the riverbank and dissolved back into the same water. Nalini told of her own childhood in Pune, of the ten days of non-stop aarti and the massive processions.

And just like that, the day was no longer Meera's. It belonged to the household.

"Today is Ganesh Chaturthi," Aaji said, setting down her cup. It wasn't a reminder; it was a declaration of war. As they worked, the air filled with stories

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.

"You have a life," the old woman corrected. "The god is coming home. We must prepare his modak (sweet dumplings)." And just like that, the day was no longer Meera's

"Not so tight, Meera," her mother scolded gently, watching her daughter pinch the dough. "You are strangling him. The modak must look like a happy, fat belly."

"Did you put the adrak (ginger) in, Aaji?" Meera mumbled, shuffling into the kitchen in her worn-out chappals. It wasn't a reminder; it was a declaration of war

The evening was a crescendo. The aarti began as the sun set. Meera rang the brass bell, the sharp tring cutting through the rhythmic chanting. Her father lit the camphor, the flame flaring bright and pure. They placed the modaks as an offering, and as they sang, the lines between the mundane and the sacred blurred.