“Maya…?” Rohan called out from the bedroom. “Where is my charger? Maya?!?” “What is it? I can’t hear you…” she called out from the shower.  “My charger? Where have you kept it?” He sounded angry, irritated, agitated. This was an everyday story. Their children had named their father ‘The Grump.’ Even then, they still loved him and accepted him for what he was.  Maya stepped out of the bathroom, half-dressed, not allowing her husband to take up her personal space. Her wet hair was tied in a...

It was that time of year again. Reema’s favourite time of year. She was wiping down the counter, her sleeves rolled up, her breath fogging faintly in the cold. She couldn’t think of any other place to be but her bakery shop -  ‘The Whistling Kettle.’  And like always, it was her busiest time. Reema and her husband, Rajiv, had opened their very own bakery shop five years ago. They moved loc,k stock, and barrel from Delhi to Shimla to live a more peaceful, contented life.  The Whistling Kettle...

The old house in Mathura had been locked for several years. When Rohan turned the key now, dust curled into the air, heavy and stale. Behind him, Naina shifted uneasily. They had come back only because their father was gone, cremated two days ago on the banks of the Yamuna. "Let's finish quickly," she murmured. The rooms felt smaller than Rohan remembered. The walls bore the stains of dampness, and the paint flaked like old skin. But it wasn't decay that made the air thick…it was memory....