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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.

Aaji looked at her granddaughter, her eyes crinkling. The old woman reached out and gently wiped a smudge of flour from Meera’s cheek. As they worked, the air filled with stories

"Today is Ganesh Chaturthi," Aaji said, setting down her cup. It wasn't a reminder; it was a declaration of war. Aaji looked at her granddaughter, her eyes crinkling

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. It wasn't a reminder; it was a declaration of war