“I’ll do it,” Rohan mumbled, but he didn’t move.

“Fish? On a Monday?” Biji frowned, then softened. “Fine. Make the Bengali-style curry. But less chili—Rohan’s stomach is delicate.”

Biji stood alone in the doorway, watching the lift doors close. She picked up the scattered newspaper, folded it neatly, and poured herself a second, colder cup of chai. She looked at the empty balcony, the quiet kitchen, the paused chaos.

She smiled, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned on the TV. A new episode of her soap was starting. The villain was about to reveal a secret twin. Life, she thought, was more dramatic than any fiction.