Books have a habit of remaining unfinished. Not because they aren’t interesting. But because life around them usually gets in the way. And somehow, nobody minds.
Whatever the plan was, it usually changes. People move closer to the windows. The air feels different. And somebody almost always says, “Smell that?”
There is a certain quiet that belongs only to the morning. The newspapers have not yet arrived. The house is still. And for a little while, the day has not…
Nobody knows how it happens. Or who is responsible. But somehow, one slipper always goes missing around the house. It usually turns up. Eventually.
Nobody intends to be the last. And yet, somebody always is. Long after the plates have been cleared, the conversation carries on. And nobody seems particularly interested in ending it.
People arrive with plans. And then quietly begin discussing whether they can stay another day. One more breakfast. One more walk. One more evening. Very few seem to regret the…
Declining once is polite. Declining twice becomes difficult. Because hospitality in India has never been measured in portions. And thankfully, neither have appetites.
Some hosts walk on four legs. They know who enjoys morning walks. They know who shares biscuits. And they somehow remember people long after they have gone home.
Nobody really announces that it is time for the fire. People simply gather. Somebody remembers a story. Somebody else adds another log. And before long, it is much later than…
Plans have a habit of changing after rain. Walks become longer. Windows stay open. And somehow, nobody seems particularly upset that the day turned out differently.