The day doesn't start with an alarm clock; it starts with the click of the gas stove. My mother, Nalini, is already in the kitchen, her silk nightie swapped for a cotton saree. She believes the sun should feel guilty for rising after her.
In a joint family, privacy is a luxury. Newlyweds struggle to find a moment alone. Teenagers cannot shut their doors (doors are a Western concept). Conversations are overheard. Mail is opened "by accident." In an Indian home, a secret doesn't exist until it is shared with at least three relatives. The day doesn't start with an alarm clock;