Father takes the "western" toilet at 6:15 AM sharp with the newspaper. The teenage daughter has a 15-minute window for her shower (using the bucket and mug, because hot water is precious). The grandfather uses the "Indian" (squat) toilet because his knees are bad. The uncle from Delhi, who is "between jobs," sleeps through his slot and is subsequently screamed at by everyone.

In a world that is increasingly isolating—where families live across continents and text "Happy Birthday" via emoji—India remains stubbornly, loudly, messily together.

The grandfather is asleep in his armchair, mouth open, newspaper spread over his chest. The grandmother is watching a television "Serial" (soap opera). In these serials, the villainous sister-in-law is plotting to steal the family jewelry, and the long-lost twin has just returned from Australia.

And she wouldn't trade it for the quietest, cleanest, most organized life in any other country on earth. The Indian family lifestyle may seem specific—the spices, the languages, the intricate rituals of puja and prasad . But the daily life stories are universal. They are stories of sacrifice (the mother eating the broken chapati so the kids get the perfect ones). They are stories of friction (the father wanting the son to be an engineer, the son wanting to be a musician). They are stories of love that is never spoken out loud, but expressed through the act of pouring a second cup of chai without being asked.

After the last dish is washed and the last light is turned off, the grandmother makes her rounds. She checks the locks on the front door (three times). She covers the leftover daal with a steel plate so the lizards don't get to it. She puts a glass of water on the bedside table for her husband, who will wake up thirsty at 3 AM.