After the aarti, the true ritual began: lunch.
This was the reality of Indian culture: it was never just about one thing. The festival of Ganesha Chaturthi wasn’t just about the elephant-headed god. It was about the neighbor, Mrs. Nair, who would send over her signature sundal (chickpea salad). It was about Uncle Shankar who would argue about cricket scores while tying the flower garlands. It was about the collective sigh of relief when the idol was finally immersed in the lake.
It was loud. It was chaotic. It was exhausting.
The alarm didn’t wake Rohan. The mithai did.
That was the trap of Indian culture. No matter how tall you grew, how far you traveled, or how much money you made, to your mother, you were always a child who hadn’t eaten enough.
Rohan looked back at the shore. Amma was already arguing with Priya about the leftover obattu . Mrs. Nair was chasing a stray dog away from her sundal . A cow was blocking the road, causing a traffic jam of auto-rickshaws whose drivers were all yelling at once.