And as the city outside honks its final lullaby, the Sharma family exhales. Because tomorrow, at 6 AM, the symphony will begin again. New chai. Same chaos. Infinite love.

Rekha, the mother, is already ten steps ahead. Her hands move on autopilot: spreading turmeric on a wound her son got yesterday, packing a lunchbox with parathas shaped like a triangle (because “square ones are boring, Mumma”), and simultaneously yelling into her phone, “No, the bhindi vendor cheats me, I’m taking the auto to the sabzi mandi today.”

“Beta, life is aggressive. The uniform is just maroon,” Rekha sighs, wrestling a hair ribbon onto Anjali’s head.