As Meena finally lay down next to Rajiv, he whispered, "You taught her well. Anjali asking for help today? That was you."

The table went quiet. Rajiv put down his tea. Instead of scolding, he smiled. "Finally! I was wondering when you'd ask." He turned to Rohan. "You're good at math. Can you teach her after dinner?"

The first hint of light crept into the kitchen of the Sharma family’s home in Jaipur before the sun did. At 5:30 AM, Meena Sharma’s hands were already dusted with chickpea flour. She was rolling besan chilla —savory gram flour pancakes—for her husband, Rajiv, who had an early meeting.

Rohan beamed. "Only if she teaches me Hindi grammar. I failed the last test."

Today, it was Vikram’s turn. He drove his old, reliable scooter. Anjali sat in front, Rohan behind him, and two neighborhood kids clung to the sides—a common, safe sight in Jaipur’s bylanes. "Hold tight," Vikram said, weaving past a sleeping cow and a chai stall. "And Anjali, remind your father to buy milk. Dadi will forget to tell him."