This is the golden hour. The sun is a soft orange behind the water tank of the neighboring building. Reyansh bursts through the door, shoes flung off, cricket bat in hand. “Mumma, I hit a six today! Straight over the bowler’s head!”
Neha watches them. She notices the grey hair at Arun’s temples that wasn't there last Diwali. She sees how Aanya’s hand unconsciously reaches out to smooth Reyansh’s messy hair.
“Tell Bhaiya the plumber when he comes for the newspaper,” Neha replies, pouring the first strong brew of chai into a clay cup. “Don’t wake the children yet. Aanya slept at 1 AM.”
Neha doesn’t answer. She just places the tray on the center table. Four steel tumblers. Biscuits (Parle-G, slightly softened by the steam). Chai, the color of a monsoon cloud, sweet, with the perfect hint of ginger.