“That’s why I’m qualified to design games, Papa. Logic.”

Rekha, the mother, is already ten steps ahead. Her hands move on autopilot: spreading turmeric on a wound her son got yesterday, packing a lunchbox with parathas shaped like a triangle (because “square ones are boring, Mumma”), and simultaneously yelling into her phone, “No, the bhindi vendor cheats me, I’m taking the auto to the sabzi mandi today.”

“Anything for you, gudiya .”

Anjali, half-asleep, whispers, “Mumma, tomorrow make aloo paratha . The heart-shaped ones.”