Urban shots#01

The Pressure Cooker Whistle

At exactly 7:10 every morning, the pressure cooker whistled like an alarm no one had set but everyone obeyed. Meera moved between stove and sink, mentally calculating school fees and grocery budgets. Her husband scanned business news, pretending not to worry about office rumors. Their daughter revised formulas at the dining table, earbuds plugged in, eyes tired. On EMI week, conversations were shorter. On Sundays, the whistle sounded softer, almost patient. The house ran on routine, steam, and suppressed anxieties. Yet every night, when the kitchen was finally quiet, Meera felt proud. The day had been managed. Again.