It begins before sunrise, not with yoga or gratitude journaling, but with someone yelling “Geyser on kiya kya?” across the house. Outside, the city is slowly waking up. Inside, the machine has already started. Not the washing machine—that’ll choke later on one of the socks it was never fed—but the intricate, over-scheduled, caffeine-fuelled engine of an urban Indian household.It takes a village—sorry, scratch that—it takes a whole city to keep an upwardly mobile Indian household running. After all, one needs all the help for their sanity, social life, sex drive, supper to be ready, senility to be balanced with sensibilities, and sanskar to be maintained along the way. Such is the choreography of modern city life. There are no extras in this performance—everyone is cast, cued, and constantly improvising.
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