The ceiling fan above the Kapoor dining table had a wobble. It was a gentle, rhythmic sway—left, right, left, right—that had dictated the tempo of their lives for twenty years. It was the metronome for the symphony of clinking steel plates, the bubbling pressure cooker, and the relentless chatter of the television playing reruns of Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi in the background.