Upon returning, the family collapses in the hall. The mother puts cold water on everyone’s forehead. The father counts the change and realizes he was cheated out of ten rupees. The grandmother laughs.
"RAJ! You are downloading games again!" the father yells. "I am studying , Papa!" Raj lies. Dadiji doesn't know what WiFi is. She blames the "evil eye" and throws a pinch of salt over her shoulder.
By Riya Sharma
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the matriarch (Maa) is packing three distinct tiffins. One is low-carb for her husband, one is "no onion-garlic" for the grandmother, and one is leftover pizza from last night for Raj—warmed up and disguised with a sprinkle of chaat masala to make it "Indian."
The son adjusts his music volume because his mother has a headache. The mother adjusts her recipe because the daughter is dieting. The father adjusts his retirement dreams so the son can study abroad. The grandmother adjusts her need for silence because the grandson needs to laugh.
This is the Indian family lifestyle. It is loud. It is exhausting. It is intrusive. And there is nowhere else on earth anyone in that house would rather be.
Because in India, you don't just live in a family. The family lives in you —every judgment, every sacrifice, every cold cup of chai.
Zimbabwe
