SOMETHING OF MY OWN
ANAMIKA
The bell above the door gives one soft chime as Yuvaan steps outside. A second later, the sound of the car fades into the afternoon traffic, leaving behind a silence that feels . . . different. Not lonely. Peaceful.
I don't move for a long moment. I simply stand in the middle of the shop, turning slowly in a circle, letting my eyes travel over every little detail.
The cream-coloured walls. The wooden shelves waiting patiently for books.
The daisies painted carefully around the windows.
The little reading nook tucked into the corner with soft cushions scattered across the floor, as though it has been waiting years for a child to curl up there with a storybook.
I breathe in deeply. Fresh paint. New wood. It doesn't smell like an old bookshop yet. It smells like possibility. Something tight inside my chest loosens so quietly that I almost don't notice it. It's a strange feeling . . . Standing inside a dream you'd forgotten belonged to you.
Once upon a time I could have described every inch of this place without closing my eyes.
I knew exactly where the shelves would go.
Where sunlight would fall in the afternoons.
How I wanted customers to feel when they walked through the door.
I used to imagine the dust floating lazily through beams of light while someone sat by the window reading for hours because no one hurried them to leave.
I hadn't thought about any of that in years. Since Sara was born, every decision I've made has revolved around three simple questions.
Can I feed her?
Can I keep her safe?
Can I make sure we still have a roof over our heads tomorrow?
If the answer helped one of those three things . . . It stayed. If it didn't . . . It disappeared.
Dreams were usually the first things to go.
Standing here now, my fingers brushing lightly across one of the empty shelves, I suddenly realise how long it's been since I wanted something simply because it made me happy.
I'd almost forgotten that version of myself existed.
I smile quietly. Then shake my head at my own thoughts. Trust Yuvaan to somehow remember the dream I'd forgotten.
My eyes drift back toward the front windows. The painted daisies. The name above the entrance.
Daisy's Books.
He'd looked almost nervous while telling me I could change it. "If you don't like the name . . . " His voice had been so careful. " . . . I'll have the sign repainted."
Anything I wanted.
A different colour.
A different name.
A completely different design.
He'd change all of it.
The shelves, too. He'd left those entirely to me.
He hadn't filled them himself. Hadn't decided which books belonged where.
Hadn't walked through the shop telling me how it should be run.
Instead . . . He'd simply handed me the keys.
"The rest is yours." Such a small sentence.
Yet somehow . . . That gesture moves me more than the shop itself.
It would've been so easy for someone in his position to create the entire thing and present it to me as a finished gift.
Instead . . . He built the walls. Then stepped back. Leaving space for me to build everything inside them. That . . . More than anything . . . Feels like respect. I kneel beside the first unopened crate and begin lifting books out one by one. The cardboard still smells faintly of ink.
I stack them into rough piles across the floor.
Children's books.
Fiction.
History.
Cookbooks.
Poetry.
Every few minutes my thoughts wander back to something he'd said before leaving.
"I didn't do this for you." I smile to myself. What an absolutely terrible liar. "I wanted a bookshop in this market anyway."
"Hmm." I place another novel onto the growing pile.
"No, you didn't." I laugh softly beneath my breath.
I've known Yuvaan almost my entire life.
He has never been a man who speaks his heart directly.
Words have always embarrassed him. They feel too exposed.
Too vulnerable. So instead . . . He builds.
He remembers. He quietly changes the world around the people he loves until it becomes softer for them without ever announcing that he was the one doing it.
I think back to when we were teenagers. There'd been one particularly exhausting exam season.
I'd been helping Maa before dawn every morning and arriving half asleep for lessons.
For an entire week . . . Somehow . . . Entirely by coincidence .
. . Yuvaan kept walking past the kitchen just as I finished sweeping.
Always carrying two cups of chai. Always pretending he'd accidentally made extra.
He never once said—"You look tired." He simply handed me tea.
The message had always been hidden inside the gesture.
Just like now. Then there's Sara. Every single day .
. . One flower. A different one each morning.
Not because flowers matter. Because promises do.
That's who he is. He says I see you without ever speaking the words.
He says I'm here. I remembered. You're important.
All without asking for credit. I look around the little bookshop again. This was never just a public project.
Not really.
The thought makes my smile softer. Even so .
. . I carefully pull myself back. It would be foolish to read too much into any of this.
Dangerous, too. My heart has only just begun trusting itself again.
He married me because we both needed something.
Perhaps . . . This is simply his way of thanking me.
A thank you disguised as a business decision.
A gift wrapped carefully enough that it wouldn't bruise my pride.
That explanation feels safer. Safer than wondering whether this bookshop exists because one boy never forgot the dreams of the girl he loved.
I place another stack of books onto the floor.
Whatever his reasons . . . The gratitude inside me remains exactly the same. Because today . . . he handed me something I genuinely believed I'd lost forever. A piece of myself.
Not the mother.
Not the survivor.
Not the woman constantly calculating expenses.
Just . . . Me.
And I intend to do something worthy of that trust. Not because I owe him.
Although a part of me quietly insists that I do.
He's already paid Sara's school fees. Given us a home.
Built this place. The list feels endless.
No. I'll make this succeed because it deserves to.
Because dreams should be allowed to earn their place in the world too.
I roll up the sleeves of my kurti and continue unpacking.
Soon the floor disappears beneath neat little mountains of books.
Without thinking, I settle cross-legged among them. Only after several minutes do I remember what Amma Saheba told me.
Your mother always sat exactly like that.
The memory makes me smile. "I miss you today, Maa."
The words slip out quietly into the empty shop. I imagine what she'd say if she could see this place. Probably that the shelves need dusting already.
I laugh.
Regional fiction belongs along the back wall.
The afternoon light reaches there beautifully. Children's books naturally find their way into the little reading corner. I crouch beside the shelves, arranging colourful picture books at exactly Sara's eye level. The thought makes me grin. She's absolutely going to claim this corner as her kingdom.
I'll probably have to negotiate with her before selling half of these books. I scribble notes onto the back of an old invoice. Need more English readers for older children. History books about Devgarh. Travel guides for tourists staying at the heritage hotel.
Maybe . . . A small table beside the front window. Somewhere people can sit with coffee and read without feeling hurried. Ideas keep arriving faster than I can write them down. Hours pass without me noticing.
By the time sunlight begins shifting across the floor, my back aches pleasantly. Dust streaks both my hands. A smudge of printer's ink has somehow found its way onto my cheek. I finally straighten up and survey the room.
Half the shelves are filled. Half the crates remain unopened. I count them silently. Then laugh. This is impossible. Not the dream. The workload.
One person cannot finish all this alone. Not if I want to open within a month. Not if I still want to walk Sara to school every morning. Pick her up afterwards. Read with her before bed.
I'll need help. Someone patient. Someone who likes children. Someone who won't panic when curious little hands pull books off every shelf in sight.
I sit back on my heels, looking around at the cheerful mess surrounding me.
Open boxes.
Half-filled shelves.
Books everywhere.
Nothing is finished. Nothing is perfect. And yet . . . For the first time in longer than I can remember . . . I don't feel like I'm merely surviving another day. The grief isn't sitting so heavily on my shoulders. The fear has finally loosened its grip. Even exhaustion feels different.
Hopeful.
I smile to myself.
Not because everything is suddenly easy. It isn't. But because somewhere between unpacking books and remembering forgotten dreams . . . I found a familiar feeling waiting quietly for me.
Myself. Or perhaps . . . The beginning of becoming her again.