The door still opened inward, brushing against the shoe rack before it could swing fully. Sanya had somehow forgotten that. She stood there for a second longer than necessary, her suitcase half inside, half outside, as if her childhood home needed time to recognise her . ​ “Sanya beta,” her mother’s voice called out from somewhere inside. Not loud. It didn’t need to be. ​ Sanya stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. She struggled with the latch as usual. Some things just never change....

“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...