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And just like that, the day was no longer Meera's. It belonged to the household.

"Today is Ganesh Chaturthi," Aaji said, setting down her cup. It wasn't a reminder; it was a declaration of war.

"Did you put the adrak (ginger) in, Aaji?" Meera mumbled, shuffling into the kitchen in her worn-out chappals.

At 10 PM, the last guest left. The flat was a mess of paper plates and sticky fingerprints. Meera’s back ached, and her kurti had a grease stain on it. She flopped down next to Aaji, exhausted. And just like that, the day was no longer Meera's

"Did the sun rise today?" Aaji retorted without turning around. "Sit."

"You have a life," the old woman corrected. "The god is coming home. We must prepare his modak (sweet dumplings)."

The scent of cardamom and cloves was the first thing that pulled Meera out of bed. It was 5:30 AM, the Mumbai sky still a bruised purple, but the kitchen downstairs was already humming with a life of its own. Her grandmother, Aaji, stood over the ancient, greasy stove, stirring a giant pot of chai with a ladle that had seen three generations. It wasn't a reminder; it was a declaration of war

"Too much noise," Aaji whispered, looking at the little pink god sitting on their makeshift altar. "Too much work."

By noon, the flat smelled of warm sugar and fried dough. Thirty perfect modaks sat on a banana leaf, glistening. The small, clay idol of Ganesh arrived, painted a cheerful pink, with eyes that seemed to hold a gentle, knowing secret.

This was the ritual. While the rest of the city slept, the two of them sat cross-legged on the cool stone floor, sipping the sweet, spicy tea from small glass cups. The first sip was a scalding, fragrant punch to the senses—the true alarm clock of an Indian home. The flat was a mess of paper plates and sticky fingerprints

As they worked, the air filled with stories. Aaji told of the Ganesh festival in her village, where the idols were made of clay from the riverbank and dissolved back into the same water. Nalini told of her own childhood in Pune, of the ten days of non-stop aarti and the massive processions.

"Because," she said, "the god doesn't care about the modak . He comes home for this."