The father, who was silent all day, suddenly has opinions. “Your math marks are dropping,” he says, dipping a piece of roti into dal . The son looks at his plate. The mother kicks the father under the table. A sibling launches a distraction: “Did you know Anjali didi is dating someone?” Now the tribunal shifts. Grandmother leans in. “What caste? What job?”

No one leaves the table until the food is finished. “Wasting food is a sin,” says the grandfather. So the mother redistributes the last bit of rice onto everyone’s plate, even though they are full. This act of forced distribution is a silent metaphor for the Indian family itself: you take more than you want, so no one goes without.

But before television, there is puja (prayer). The small temple in the corner of the house is lit. The incense sticks are lit. It is not overly solemn. The mother prays for the son’s exam results. The son prays for a new PlayStation. The atheist uncle stands in the back, but closes his eyes anyway because it feels like home.