Inside, three generations were navigating the beautiful, organized chaos of a Sunday afternoon in Bengaluru. In the kitchen, Meenakshi moved with a rhythmic grace born of decades of practice. She didn't need a timer; she knew the mustard seeds were ready by the specific tempo of their pop against the hot steel of the kadai .

As the sun began to dip, painting the sky in shades of saffron and violet, the family gathered at the dining table. There was no "formal" start to the meal. Plates were passed, steel tumblers clinked, and the conversation jumped from the rising price of gold to the latest cricket scores, and finally to a debate over which neighbor had the best mango tree.

"Check behind the idol of Ganesha," Meenakshi replied, not looking up. "You left it there after your 'emergency' meeting this morning."

There was a knock at the door—the neighbor’s son, bringing over a bowl of homemade payasam because "it’s a festival somewhere, probably."