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Riya looks up from her phone, caught between two generations. She sighs, puts her phone down, and holds the ladder. For ten minutes, father and daughter work in sync—no words, just the sound of a wrench turning. When the fan hums smoothly, Anil pats Riya’s head. Just once. Just lightly. But it says: You are still my little girl.

"Did you see the electric bill?" he asks, not looking up. Riya looks up from her phone, caught between two generations

But in a classic Indian family, the gods—and the mother—never sleep. When the fan hums smoothly, Anil pats Riya’s head

“Just tell him the room is under renovation,” says Riya, scrolling through Instagram. But it says: You are still my little girl

The real magic happens not in grand gestures, but in the kitchen. By 2 PM, Savita is rolling out the third batch of rotis. Anil, pretending to look for a screwdriver, hovers by the door.

“I need help holding the ladder.”

“Beta, call your father for chai,” she says.