If you have ever peeked through the window of an Indian home (metaphorically, please don’t be a creep!), you will see a beautiful chaos that looks like a perfectly choreographed dance. Let me take you through a typical day in my home—a three-generation household in Mumbai.
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We settle for two rupees less. I bring the vegetables up, and my mother-in-law starts chopping them while watching her daily soap. The villain on TV is crying, but Mummyji is not paying attention; she is telling me gossip about the Sharma family in 1972.
The Indian family car (usually a compact Suzuki or Hyundai) is an extension of the living room. It is the stage for the most intimate .