Then, the chaos arrived.
He poured the dark, steaming chai into two clay cups—Biji refused to drink from anything else, claiming metal “steals the soul of the tea.” They sat together on the balcony, watching the auto-rickshaws assemble at the corner like metallic beetles. No words. Just the sip, the sigh, and the slow waking of the city.
“For the model of the Konkan coast! I’m the only one who didn’t bring one!”
His wife, Kavya, burst out of the bathroom, a towel turbaned on her head and a spatula in her hand. “Rohan! Did you pack Ved’s tiffin? He needs a ‘healthy snack’ for the art competition, and the last time I sent a biscuit, the teacher called it ‘nutritionally deficient.’”
