In an Indian household, the day does not begin with the sun. It begins with the whistle of the pressure cooker.

The tiffins are stacked: A circular dabba for the schoolboy (Roti, Sabzi, Rice, and a Chikki for dessert). A larger, rectangular one for the office-going husband (three rotis, dal fry, and a separate container for raita ). And a glass jar for the college-going son (leftover biryani from last night, because “real men don’t eat salads”).