As the sun peaks, India slows down. The afternoon is for the siesta —a necessary pause in the tropical heat. But for the women of the house, this is often the only quiet time for themselves. They might sit on the veranda, peeling peas or stringing flowers for the evening prayer. It is during these hours that the real stories are told. Over the rhythmic thwack of a knife against a cutting board, secrets are shared: “Did you see the new neighbor?” or “Shh, the eldest son is looking for a bride.”

Sunday morning is not for sleeping in. It is for "visiting relatives." You put on your best clothes. You drive two hours to Uncle’s house. You eat puri and halwa until you burst. You listen to the same stories you heard last Diwali. You smile. When you finally leave and sit in the car, your mother says, "We should visit more often," and your father groans. This cycle repeats every Sunday.