White.

The laptop screen glowed with a lonely white cursor, beeping at her, waiting for words that refused to come.

Vrinda threw her head onto the counter and ran both hands through her hair, groaning.

"Why is it that whenever I sit to write these days, I can’t concentrate…" she thought, frustration tightening her features.

Just then, the small bell above the café door jingled. A woman in her mid-thirties walked in, radiating warmth and cheer.

Vrinda’s frustration melted into a polite smile as she greeted her.

“Is the new romance novel I asked for here?” the woman asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Vrinda’s smile faltered as she shook her head, and the woman’s bright energy dimmed, letting out a soft sigh as she turned to leave.

“But I do have this,” Vrinda said, holding up a book.

The woman spun around, eyes wide, and leapt forward, hugging Vrinda tightly, the counter between them barely holding her excitement.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!” the woman muttered, words tumbling out as she took the book from Vrinda and hugged it to her chest.

Vrinda gave a small thumbs-up, smiling faintly. The woman handed her the price of the book and hurried out, the bell jingling behind her as the door closed.

As the sound faded, Vrinda’s smile disappeared. She sank into her chair, staring at the blank screen, trying desperately to summon a plot for her book, but the words refused to come.

It wasn’t a huge space, but it had a charm that made it feel like home the moment someone stepped in. The walls were painted a soft pastel brown, adorned with delicate hand-painted decorations in every corner, creations of Vrinda’s Nanu, Abhay Mathur.

An old radio sat on a corner shelf, its brass knobs gleaming faintly. It had once belonged to Vrinda’s mother, Indu, a gift from Vrinda's father, Varun, and now filled the café with a warm, nostalgic hum whenever it played. It usually played most of the time, with old bollywood songs.

Lush green plants dotted the room, some hanging from the ceiling, others resting in terracotta pots on the floor and tables. A sleek coffee machine hissed and steamed, promising warmth and comfort to visitors.

A deep red, almost wine-colored antique telephone stood on a small side table, the one which rung many times during a day. Three large bookshelves lined the walls, stacked with books of every kind, some arranged neatly, others with the charming haphazardness of frequent readers.

The biggest feature of Gungunaye was the tall window, stretching from floor to ceiling, letting in the soft Shimla sunlight. In front of it sat a white table with two chairs, positioned opposite each other, the perfect spot to sip coffee and get lost in a book.

Every corner of the café whispered stories: of quiet mornings, of Vrinda’s laughter echoing softly, and of the peace that wrapped around anyone who entered Gungunaye.

She finally closed her laptop, knowing today wasn’t the day for writing.

Vrinda walked over to the coffee machine and scooped fresh coffee beans from the large container, grinding them with care. Hoping it would taste perfect, she took a sip, and, as always, it fell short. She could never quite make it like the cafés she had visited, yet wasting it wasn’t an option. So she drank it slowly, savoring each imperfect sip, and pulled a book from the shelf, settling into the white chair by the window.

Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar’s “Itna na mujhse Pyaar badha” played softly on the old radio. The gentle afternoon sunlight of Shimla kissed her exposed neck, the right side of her face, and the delicate hands holding her coffee mug and book.

She wore blue jeans, a short kurti, and a red woolen cardigan. Her long brown hair was tied in a loose braid, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her cheeks were tinged pink from the crisp Shimla air, and her amber eyes caught the sunlight, glinting with a warmth that seemed to melt the world around her.

As Vrinda sat by the window, the telephone rang, its antique red frame gleaming in the sunlight.

She pushed the chair back and walked over, picking up the receiver.

"Hello?" she asked

"Aate waqt thode se pyaaz aur bhindi le aana," Tulsi’s voice chirped from the other end.

"Kya yaar, Nani! Teen din pehle hi toh Nanu le aaye the," Vrinda complained, pouting.

"As if it’s gonna stay fresh forever, and nobody’s gonna eat it!" Tulsi teased back, her tone mock-serious.

"Thik hai thik hai, daanto mat, I’ll get-" Vrinda started, only to be cut off mid-sentence as the line went dead with a soft beep.

"Izzat hi nahi hai meri," she muttered to herself with a pout, deciding to finish her book before the evening fully settled in.

From 3 pm to 6:17 pm, the soft blue light of dusk slowly draped the café-bookstore. More customers trickled in, browsing, renting books, or purchasing a few, which she dutifully noted in the register.

As she doodled a tiny cactus wearing a hat in the corner of the ledger, a sudden thought hit her, her Nani had reminded her to pick up the vegetables.

Her eyes widened. Shit.

Hurriedly, she switched off the warm golden lamps, locked the door, and rolled down the shutter, closing the bookstore before the usual time. Jumping onto her cycle, she pedaled like the wind, racing toward the vegetable shop before it closed.

The vegetable shops were almost closing, their shutters halfway down, and only a few people lingered, finishing their last-minute shopping.

Vrinda slowed her cycle, letting it roll to a gentle stop, before hopping off with a small sigh of relief. The evening air was crisp against her cheeks, and the faint scent of fresh vegetables mixed with the distant aroma of street food.

"Namaste Dada, sab theek?" she asked, still breathing a little hastily from cycling.

"Haan beta, sab badhia, bas dukaan band karne hi wala tha, lekin dur se tum aati dikh gayi," the old man said, a familiar smile on his face. He had known Vrinda since childhood and was also acquainted with Abhay.

"Pyaaz aur bhindi, do kilo de dijiye," she said, holding out the cloth bag she had brought.

As the old shopkeeper carefully inspected each vegetable before handing them over, Vrinda did the same, turning each onion and piece of bhindi to make sure they were perfect before placing them in her bag.

"Jharna Dadi kaisi hai?" she asked while still choosing the onions.

"Thik hai beta. Tumhare Nana ji ko mera namaskar bolna," he said, handing her the filled bag.

"Ji ji, bilkul," she replied, giving him the money. She was about to leave when she turned back.

"Dada, aaj apne dhaniya nahi diya?"

"Arrey, maaf karna beta, ye lo. Ab iss budhau ko kya sab yaad rehta hai bhala," he murmured, with a soft smile beneath his grey mustache, adding a bunch of coriander into her bag.

"Koi baat nahi. Khayal rakhna, aur Chhoti ko agar aur koi kitaab ki zarurat ho toh mujhe bata dena, okay?" she said, hopping back onto her bicycle.

"Bilkul beta, sambhal ke jana," he called after her as she rode off toward her home, a few kilometers away from Shimla, in the small village of Mehrawali.

It was a little colder now. The huge mountain ranges decorated the horizon, and a soft, chilly breeze brushed against her as she stopped to take out her muffler and shawl, wrapping them snugly around herself.

After almost twenty-five minutes, she reached her village, and after a few turns, her home came into view.

It was a two-story house, not very large, but lively and welcoming. Painted in a gentle mint green, it had a large steel gate at the entrance. Beyond it was a spacious verandah leading to the main door.

Vrinda knocked lightly on the door and rang her cycle bell. Soon, an elderly lady appeared, slim, not very tall, wearing a pink kurta set, a sweater over it, her dupatta neatly tucked, and a shawl draped over her shoulders.

She opened the gate, faint yellow lights still glowing above the door, and a few potted plants decorating the entrance. Vrinda carefully placed her cycle in the verandah, right beside the yellow scooty.

"Ye lo" she handed Tulsi the vegetable bag,

"Thandiiii," Vrinda hissed, tiptoeing inside. Tulsi followed her, closing both the gate and the main door behind them.

As she entered the living room, an elderly man, chubby, with a white mustache and spectacles perched at the tip of his nose, was busy fiddling with screwdrivers and batteries, trying to fix a clock that had stopped ticking.

A mischievous grin spread across Vrinda’s face. She tiptoed behind him and suddenly pressed her cold, chilly hands against his face.

“Eeeeeeeeeee!” Abhay yelped, jerking back from the icy touch, while Vrinda burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Aisa mere saath na kiya karo tum,” he said, pouting.

She tugged his cheeks playfully, grinning. “Mere pookie Nanu,” she said.

Abhay let out a long sigh, shaking his head, and returned to his clock and screwdrivers, pretending to ignore her, but the corners of his lips betrayed a faint smile.

Vrinda went upstairs to her room and washed her hands, freshening up. She changed into a comfortable full-sleeve t-shirt and soft pyjamas.

After opening her hair and combing it carefully, she tied it into a neat bun with her clutch.

By the time she went downstairs, the aroma of spices filled the air. Abhay and Tulsi were busy in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and stirring pots, completely absorbed in preparing dinner

"Vrindu, plates laga do," Tulsi called out.

Vrinda went to the kitchen, took out three plates and a few bowls, and arranged them neatly on the floor of the large living room

"Chappatis bhi le jaao," Abhay called, pointing to the hotcase that held the freshly made chapatis, while he flipped the last one with practiced ease.

They all sat down together, on the ground with small mats for each of them.

As always, they joined their hands and bowed their heads in a small prayer before starting to eat.

The dinner was filled with simple yet comforting dishes, soft chapatis, steaming kadhai paneer, and perfectly spiced bhindi ki sabzi.

"It'll be easier if we had another teacher for the school," Vrinda said between bites, her eyes thoughtful.

"Hmm, it would," Tulsi nodded, and Abhay murmured in agreement, a small smile on his face.

"I think I'll post something online... see if anyone's interested," Vrinda added, glancing at them with a hopeful look.

"Okay beta, whatever you think is best," Abhay said warmly, giving her an encouraging nod.

They all chatted casually, about the village, small happenings, and their daily routines.

Vrinda laughed as she recounted her day at the bookstore. "And then I realized I forgot to bring the vegetables, so I practically rode my cycle like a horse to get them in time!" she said, grinning as she mimicked her hurried ride.

Tulsi chuckled softly, shaking her head, while Abhay laughed heartily. "Beta, you never fail to keep things interesting," he said, smiling at her energy.

Tulsi shook her head, a small frown forming on her face. "Vrinda, what if you had fallen? You can't just rush like that-it's dangerous!" she said, her voice firm but gentle.

She glanced at Abhay, as if expecting him to join in the scolding. Abhay hesitated, scratching his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He had never scolded his granddaughter before, and the thought of doing so now felt strangely impossible.

Vrinda's grin softened as she looked at them, realizing the mix of concern and affection in their eyes. "I'll be careful, Nani, I promise," she said, sipping her water, while Tulsi's frown slowly melted into a smile.