Raman’s grocery always smelled faintly of clove and old wood. Not unpleasant—just familiar. The floor creaked in the same spots every morning,
and there was a small scratch on the counter where he rested his hand before he started the day.
Hand on wood, a nod to the portrait of his wife above the shelves, and then the metallic clatter of the shutters rolling up.
That was the rhythm of his mornings. He liked rhythm. It made the world behave.
Outside, the sun already leaned across the street at an angle, soft light glancing off scooter mirrors and tin signs. The air was cool still, with that gentle promise of heat waiting later in the day. Somewhere down the alley, the baker switched on his radio; an old song crackled through.
Two motorbikes tore past, rattling like tin cans in a dream.
It all sounded as it always did.
A normal day.
The first customer came, as she always did, at the same time:
Mrs. Desai, wrapped in her green sari patterned with tiny flowers. She bought rice and a packet of tea, smiled her usual smile, and tapped her fingers lightly on the counter. “How’s Mira, Mr. Raman? Wedding still on?”
Raman smiled back.
“Yes, yes. She’s busy looking at dresses.
I think she’s more stressed than the groom.”
Mrs. Desai laughed. “That’s how it should be!
Ladies have to bother, or the wedding will fall apart.”
She paid in exact change, as always.
They exchanged polite nods.
Raman watched her cross the street, the sunlight spilling over her sari like a rain of tiny golden sparks.
Then the little rhythm of customers began— the schoolboy from around the corner who bought a bottle of lemonade, the postman who always begged for a discount on batteries, the old man who forgot his shopping bag and returned in a panic, as if it were the end of the world.
Everyone greeted him.
Everyone knew Raman.
Next to the till, a small handwritten sign read:
“Congratulations to Mira!”
His neighbour had hung it up before he could stop her. She somehow knew everything before even he did. Sometimes he caught himself staring at the sign, unsure what he was really feeling. Happiness, yes—but the careful kind, the kind you hold gently, as if it could fall and shatter.
Mira herself came by that afternoon. She carried a folder under her arm and her phone in hand.
“Appa, I can’t decide between these two halls,” she said, without pausing for breath.
He leaned over the counter to look, squinting at the photos on her phone. His worn eyes couldn’t see it.
“Sorry, Mira, I can’t see them properly anymore. I’ll check on the laptop tonight.”
She glanced around the shop.
“You should take that sign down, Appa. People will think I’m already married.”
He chuckled softly. “Let them think that. We might sell more rice.”
She laughed, hugged him quickly, and was gone again, the little doorbell chiming behind her.
A small sound that stayed in the air long after she left.
By afternoon, the rush was over. Raman pulled a chair near the doorway and poured himself tea. The air had turned thick and warm, the kind of heat that made you slow, but not unhappy.
He watched the street—the children chasing a ball, the neighbour polishing his scooter, a stray dog sleeping in the shade.
Everything was small. Manageable.
And he liked it that way.
He thought of years ago, when Mira used to run into the shop after school, her satchel bouncing, knocking into the spice shelves until he scolded her gently.
Now she worked at the big firm owned by his old friend Sumai. She spoke English all day, and people called her Manager Mira. She had gone farther than he ever dared to hope.
He was proud, and everyone knew it.
The day thinned slowly into evening. The sun sank low, painting the shop front in orange light.
Raman pulled the shutter halfway down. Inside, the air smelled of dust and sugar, the comfortable scent of closing time. He took out his notebook, wrote down the day’s sales, and did the margins in his head. Not bad for a Tuesday.
He didn’t hurry to leave.
Sometimes he just sat, scrolling through old pictures on his phone. He reread a message from Mira that morning:
“Appa, don’t forget to eat. I’ll call you tonight”.
He read it twice, smiling faintly. Small things, he thought. The spice of life, that’s what keeps the world going.
Outside, the last scooter buzzed down the street. Shadows lengthened, and the city exhaled.
Everything was just as it always was every day.