The Whistling Kettle

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 sat halfway down a snow-dusted Shimla lane, its windows glowing golden against the cold. A paper star hung above the sage-green door, swaying gently in the wind. Through the glass, the café looked just like a postcard. It was warm, alive, and smelling faintly of coffee, cinnamon, and freshly baked bread.

Inside, candles flickered on a few mismatched tables. A chalkboard menu listed croissants, plum cake, and cinnamon cappuccino in Reema’s uneven handwriting. Behind the counter, cookie jars and tins of cocoa caught the light like ornaments.

Somewhere in the back, a kettle whistled softly; the sound that gave the place its name. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm. The kind of place where strangers lingered, and the night never felt quite so cold.

Reema peeked out of the window. The streets were quiet, and most of the town was already settled in for the night. The shop's fairy lights flickered faintly through the fog. But Reema insisted on staying a wee bit longer. She couldn’t help but think about Rajiv. ‘He would have insisted on closing the shop by now,’ she thought, looking up at the clock. Usually, they’d lock up and walk home through the cold, laughing about how no one in their right mind would have coffee at that hour. 

This year, he wasn’t here. She was all by herself, in her bakery shop, making a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies. Someone had to keep the show running. After all, it was Christmas Eve. When the clock struck eight, the silence pressed like an extra layer of snow. 

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat near the window. Outside, the streetlamps blurred into halos of white. A couple walked by. Their laughter trailed behind them like ribbons. Reema’s eyes softened. She wasn’t lonely exactly,  just aware of the quiet. She savoured the last sip of her coffee and walked over to the oven to check on the cookies. Her husband’s voice rang through her head, ‘Nobody comes by past seven,’ he’d say. 

“Maybe I should go home,” she sighed. “Maybe he was right.”

Just then, the bell above the door jangled.

Two tall, hefty men stepped in, brushing snow from their shoulders. Their coats were heavy. Their faces were shadowed and unshaven. One wore a black skullcap; the other’s wavy hair fell loosely over his tired eyes.

For a moment, Reema froze. The warm hum of the café seemed to still. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the rolling pin resting on the counter.

“Do you have coffee?” one of them smiled, just a little, almost apologetically. 

“Are you open?” his friend added. His voice was low but polite. “We’ve been trudging for hours, but everything else is close.”

Reema exhaled, her shoulders easing. “You’re lucky. The kettle’s still whistling.”

They grinned gratefully, stamping snow off their boots. She poured them coffee, watching the steam curl between them as they thawed in the warmth. 

One of them murmured, “Best smell in the world.”

Reema smiled faintly. “Coffee or cinnamon?”“Both,” he said, wrapping his hands around the mug.

And just like that, the tension melted into quiet companionship. The kind that needed no conversation, only warmth, and the comfort of knowing someone had kept the lights on.

Moments later, another man dropped by.

“Still open?” He asked. 

“Always for coffee,” she smiled.

He ordered a cappuccino, then added shyly, “And maybe... a croissant?”

“Good choice. They’re fresh from this morning.”

He chuckled. “Morning croissant, night coffee,  balance, I suppose.”

They chatted a bit while the kettle began to hum. He was a school teacher from Delhi, visiting his sister in town. His train had been delayed, so he’d wandered up the hill for warmth. He left with a grateful smile and a generous tip.

Reema felt lighter. The café smelled of cinnamon and butter again, and somehow, that small conversation had thawed something inside her. She wiped the counter once more, humming softly.

The bell rang again.

This time, it was a young couple, flushed, laughing, their noses red from the cold. They ordered two hot chocolates and a slice of plum cake. “You’ve saved us,” the girl said, holding her boyfriend’s hand. “Everywhere else is closed.”

Reema smiled. “I’m glad I could help.”

They stayed for an hour, taking pictures, leaving crumbs and warmth behind. After they left, another family wandered in. A father and a little girl wearing red mittens. The girl pressed her nose to the display case and whispered, “Mumma says Santa likes cookies.”

Reema gave her one on the house. “Tell him it’s from me.”

By ten, the café had seen more visitors than on any Christmas Eve before. Each one left a trace … a laugh, a thank you, the faint scent of damp wool and snow.

Reema leaned against the counter, her feet aching, but her heart full. It was at that moment that she wished she had someone to give her a hand. 

The bell rang again. More customers. 

“What on earth is going on tonight?” she thought. 

The bell rang again. She was just about to turn them away and tell them that she was about to close because there was no way she could accommodate more customers. 

“Sorry, we’re…” she began, then froze.

Rajiv stood at the door, his cheeks pink from the cold, snow glinting in his hair. Behind him were their children, holding boxes and laughing.

“What’s going on?” Rajiv whispered in Reema’s ear as he pulled her into a hug. 

“I don’t know! Customers keep appearing,” she whispered back, squeezing his hands. 

It was at that moment Rajiv, Reema, and their two sons rolled up their sleeves and took orders, made coffee and served the customers. 

It was almost midnight when the bakery shop was empty. All the customers had finally gone. 

“Wow! What a special Christmas surprise," Rajiv exclaimed. 

“I wasn’t expecting you until the day after,” Reema replied. 

“You didn’t really think we’d let you spend it alone, did you?” Rajiv added, pulling his better half into a hug. 

For a second, Reema couldn’t speak. Then she laughed… that helpless, tearful laugh that spills out when joy catches you by surprise.

Rajiv wrapped his arms around her again. “We reached home, and you weren’t there. So we thought,  "If you won’t come to Christmas, Christmas will come to you.”

They pulled the tables together, poured coffee, and reheated brownies. The little café that had once felt too big for one woman now brimmed with voices, warmth, and the clinking of mugs. Through the window, snow drifted softly down the lane, glowing golden in the light.

When the last mug was washed and the chairs were stacked, Reema leaned her head on Rajiv’s shoulder.

“I thought tonight would be lonely,” she admitted.“But it turned out to be… loud. And sweet. And crazy.”

Rajiv laughed softly. “Exactly like Christmas should be."

She nudged him. “You walked in right when I’d decided to shut the door.”

“Well,” he grinned, “good thing you didn’t. You kept the lights on. And look what happened... people wandered in, stories wandered in…”He ran his fingers through her soft, grey hair. “And so did we.”

Reema looked around the little bakery, now quiet except for the faint ticking of the wall clock.

“Funny," she whispered, “I opened the shop tonight because I didn’t want to feel alone. And instead, I got a room full of hearts.”

Rajiv kissed her forehead and smiled … “Because when you stay open, warmth always finds a path back home.”