Her morning ritual was a masterclass in efficiency. After the bell, she lit a diya (lamp). The flame, she believed, wasn’t just for the gods; it was for her own focus. Then, the aarti —a quick, five-minute chant—while her husband, Rohan, scrolled through news on his phone. Her mother-in-law, Savitri, watched with quiet pride. Savitri belonged to a different India, one where a woman’s universe was the chulha (hearth) and the courtyard. Yet, she had adapted. She didn’t understand Python, but she ensured Anjali never left for work without a tiffin box of thepla and a pinch of kumkum for her forehead.
Mrs. Rao noticed Sophia's fascination with the sarees and approached her. "Welcome to Maharani Sarees, beta," she said warmly. "I'm Mrs. Rao. How can I help you?"