Eleven More Days

March arrives quietly. But in her room, it never really stands a chance.

 It’s spotted almost immediately. A small square on the calendar. Thirty one. Circled first in pencil, then traced again in pen, just to be sure it stays put in the calendar. As if the date might slip away if not held firmly enough.

Every morning it becomes a part of her daily ritual.

Nilah drags the little wooden stool across the floor, heels digging in, with the familiar scrape marking the start of something important. She climbs up carefully and pauses, just looking at it.

Without thinking, her fingers come together on their own, interlacing loosely as her eyes find the date. She’s known it by-heart for weeks. But her fingers don’t seem to know that. They separate and begin to trace the dates, slowly, almost absentmindedly. Not counting at first, just feeling the distance. Only after a moment does it turn into numbers. 

One more day gone. One day closer.

Her fingers don’t just point anymore, they travel. Sometimes carefully, one square at a time. Sometimes, skipping ahead, just to visit the destination and return.

“Eleven more days”, she says, to the wall, to the air, to herself.

At school, the calendar follows her around like a secret she can’t quite keep.

“I’m going to paati’s house this Summer”, she says trying to sound candid, but the words rush out. “There’s an age-old big mango tree…and she makes the best snacks…”

She pauses, thinking of the backyard for a brief second.

“...and by then the mangoes would’ve just come in. She’d already have jars lined up…the pickle setting in the sun. She makes the tastiest mango pickle…”

Back at home, the countdown finds it’s voice.

“Did you book the tickets yet?”, she asks, hovering near the kitchen.

“Soon”, her mother responds.

“Soon means when?”

A pause. A smile. “Very soon”.

By dinner, she asks again. By bedtime, once more. Her father stretches the suspense.

“Maybe we’ll go next month”, he says.

Her face gets flustered, just for a second, before he laughs and pulls her back.

“Tickets will be booked by tomorrow”

Tomorrow. The word hums quietly in everything she does. And when the tickets are finally booked, the energy in the house shifts.

That evening, she made the call.

Both hands wrap tightly around the receiver. Her left foot finds her right ankle, slips down, and returns again. One leg folds over the other, restless, unable to stay still.

The receiver presses closer. Her fingers tighten, as if that might shorten the distance. And then, the line clicks.

“Paati?”

The moment her grandmother answers, her legs find the ground and stay still. Her grip steadies. 

“Paati, I’m coming there. Appa booked the tickets…”

On the other end, there’s laughter, warmth, and questions on how she’s coming and when she’s coming.

When she hangs up, she walks back to the calendar, and finds that the circle around 31st looks different somehow.

The calendar was right. Summer has officially begun.

At Sweet Karam Coffee, this is the feeling we keep coming back to. The mango pickle sitting in the sun. The phone call that makes your legs go still. We’re here to bring those little moments of joy that only paati’s house holds.