“Well,” she says quietly, “whatever the reason is… it suits you.”
I look down at my coffee mug for a second.
The warmth from it spreads slowly through my hands.
“I am happy,” I admit after a moment.
The words come out simpler than I expect.
Ketki smiles faintly. “I’m glad.”
She doesn’t ask anything else. That’s one of the things I respect most about her. She never pushes past the point where curiosity becomes intrusion.
We walk back toward the editorial room together.
On the way she hands me a manuscript folder.
“Debut author,” she explains. “The writing is rough but there’s something interesting in the voice.”
I open the folder as we walk.
“Let’s schedule a meeting with the author next week,” I say after skimming the first page.
Ketki nods approvingly. “That’s exactly what I suggested.” We step into the conference room where the design team is waiting with mock-ups for the next book cover.
For the next hour I’m fully immersed in work. Discussions about typography. Paper quality. Marketing strategy. Release timelines.
It’s familiar territory. Comfortable territory. But somewhere between reviewing the cover art and finalizing a print schedule, my thoughts drift again.
Divya leaning against the kitchen counter this morning. Neel inspecting the cake like a serious food critic.
I glance down at my wrist. The faint scent of the attar she applied yesterday still lingers there. Something warm spreads quietly through my chest again.
For years my life has followed a simple rhythm.
Work.
Home.
Work again.
Books filling the spaces in between.
But now—now there is laughter in the kitchen. Flour fights. A small boy declaring important missions. And a woman whose smile has somehow become the first thing I think about when the day begins.
Across the table Ketki notices the small smile that slips onto my face again.
She doesn’t say anything this time. She just watches for a moment. Then returns to the manuscript in front of her.
And for the first time in a long while—work doesn’t feel like the only place where my life exists.
11. EVENING PICNICS
ADITYA
The message I send is simple.
Come to the terrace when you’re done closing the shop.
