Echoes of Saltwater
At 47, Vikram Malhotra's life was a meticulously curated spreadsheet. CEO of Mumbai's fastest-growing organic skincare empire, his mornings began with spirulina shots and boardroom battles, his evenings with investor dinners at Bandra's steel-and-glass towers. His wife, Naina, a former investment banker, now orchestrated their social calendar like a general - charity galas, yoga retreats with her college girlfriends, Instagrammable vacations where they posed in matching linen outfits, smiling emptily into the sunset. Their 19-year-old daughter, Riya, called them "the LinkedIn couple" behind their backs.
The cracks surfaced on Riya's birthday dinner. Over miso-glazed black cod at Wasabi, Vikram realized he'd forgotten his own wedding anniversary. Again. Naina didn't react, scrolling through her phone as Riya snapped, "Why don't you two just admit you're roommates?"
---
Aditi entered their lives like monsoon rain - unexpected, disruptive. Riya brought her home from St. Xavier's, introducing her as "the only person who gets Murakami *and* memes." She was 21, all loose braids and ink-stained fingers, an art student who painted murals in Dharavi slums. "Uncle, your terrace garden is *everything*," she grinned when Vikram showed her his bonsais, her enthusiasm disarming his usual reserve.
Soon, she became a fixture - laughing over chai with Riya, leaving charcoal sketches on their fridge. Vikram found himself lingering at breakfast, listening to her rants about Mumbai's street art scene. She called him "Mr. Vitamin C" for his serum empire, teased him about his rigid 6 AM routine. "You ever just? *not* optimize a day?" she asked once, her kohl-rimmed eyes crinkling.
The shift was slow, seismic. Aditi dragged him to a Kalarippayattu class, where he gasped through ancient martial arts moves beside college kids. She critiqued his skincare ads - "Why's the 'natural' model airbrushed?" - and left a rebellious doodle on his office whiteboard: a bonsai breaking its pot, roots sprawling free.
One sweaty July night, Vikram found her on the terrace, painting the Mumbai skyline under fairy lights. "Your wife's at a silent retreat, right?" she said, not turning. "Must be loud, all that silence."
He froze. The city hummed below them, a living thing.
"I wasn't always this? spreadsheet," he confessed, words spilling like overturned ink. How he'd played jazz piano in dive bars before his father's death forced him into the family business. How Naina used to leave him love notes in Excel formulas during their courtship.
Aditi wiped her brush, quiet. "My dad left when I was six. You're both lucky, you know?"
---
The reckoning came at Kala Ghoda's art festival. Aditi's installation - a tower of broken skincare bottles sprouting wildflowers - had a plaque: *"Growth Isn't Always Contained."* Vikram stared, pulse roaring, as Naina materialized beside him. "Riya sent me," she said, voice unreadable.
They faced each other in their silent Mercedes later. "You forgot our 20th anniversary," Naina said. "But you remembered her exhibition date."
Vikram's phone buzzed - a WhatsApp from Aditi. *"Talk to her, Mr. Vitamin C. P.S. Jazz bars still exist."*
He hesitated, then played a voicemail from Riya: *"Dad, Aditi's moving to Berlin. And Mom cries when she thinks I'm not home."*
Naina's mask slipped first. "I started the retreats because you stopped seeing me. Just another task to delegate."
---
They didn't fix it overnight. But Vikram began leaving work at 7 PM sharp. Naina canceled her Bali trip. Their first awkward "date" was Marine Drive at dusk, eating bhel from a street cart, sticky-fingered and laughing.
When Aditi left, she gifted Vikram a sketch - a man mid-dive between skyscrapers and piano keys. *"Roots need air too,"* she'd scrawled.
At Riya's graduation, Naina wore Vikram's college band T-shirt under her sari. He spotted the doodle on her wrist - a tiny bonsai, roots and wings tangled - and knew Aditi's whisper had reached them both.
Mumbai flowed on, relentless, but in their Altamount Road penthouse, two people relearned the quiet art of unfolding.
At 47, Vikram Malhotra's life was a meticulously curated spreadsheet. CEO of Mumbai's fastest-growing organic skincare empire, his mornings began with spirulina shots and boardroom battles, his evenings with investor dinners at Bandra's steel-and-glass towers. His wife, Naina, a former investment banker, now orchestrated their social calendar like a general - charity galas, yoga retreats with her college girlfriends, Instagrammable vacations where they posed in matching linen outfits, smiling emptily into the sunset. Their 19-year-old daughter, Riya, called them "the LinkedIn couple" behind their backs.
The cracks surfaced on Riya's birthday dinner. Over miso-glazed black cod at Wasabi, Vikram realized he'd forgotten his own wedding anniversary. Again. Naina didn't react, scrolling through her phone as Riya snapped, "Why don't you two just admit you're roommates?"
---
Aditi entered their lives like monsoon rain - unexpected, disruptive. Riya brought her home from St. Xavier's, introducing her as "the only person who gets Murakami *and* memes." She was 21, all loose braids and ink-stained fingers, an art student who painted murals in Dharavi slums. "Uncle, your terrace garden is *everything*," she grinned when Vikram showed her his bonsais, her enthusiasm disarming his usual reserve.
Soon, she became a fixture - laughing over chai with Riya, leaving charcoal sketches on their fridge. Vikram found himself lingering at breakfast, listening to her rants about Mumbai's street art scene. She called him "Mr. Vitamin C" for his serum empire, teased him about his rigid 6 AM routine. "You ever just? *not* optimize a day?" she asked once, her kohl-rimmed eyes crinkling.
The shift was slow, seismic. Aditi dragged him to a Kalarippayattu class, where he gasped through ancient martial arts moves beside college kids. She critiqued his skincare ads - "Why's the 'natural' model airbrushed?" - and left a rebellious doodle on his office whiteboard: a bonsai breaking its pot, roots sprawling free.
One sweaty July night, Vikram found her on the terrace, painting the Mumbai skyline under fairy lights. "Your wife's at a silent retreat, right?" she said, not turning. "Must be loud, all that silence."
He froze. The city hummed below them, a living thing.
"I wasn't always this? spreadsheet," he confessed, words spilling like overturned ink. How he'd played jazz piano in dive bars before his father's death forced him into the family business. How Naina used to leave him love notes in Excel formulas during their courtship.
Aditi wiped her brush, quiet. "My dad left when I was six. You're both lucky, you know?"
---
The reckoning came at Kala Ghoda's art festival. Aditi's installation - a tower of broken skincare bottles sprouting wildflowers - had a plaque: *"Growth Isn't Always Contained."* Vikram stared, pulse roaring, as Naina materialized beside him. "Riya sent me," she said, voice unreadable.
They faced each other in their silent Mercedes later. "You forgot our 20th anniversary," Naina said. "But you remembered her exhibition date."
Vikram's phone buzzed - a WhatsApp from Aditi. *"Talk to her, Mr. Vitamin C. P.S. Jazz bars still exist."*
He hesitated, then played a voicemail from Riya: *"Dad, Aditi's moving to Berlin. And Mom cries when she thinks I'm not home."*
Naina's mask slipped first. "I started the retreats because you stopped seeing me. Just another task to delegate."
---
They didn't fix it overnight. But Vikram began leaving work at 7 PM sharp. Naina canceled her Bali trip. Their first awkward "date" was Marine Drive at dusk, eating bhel from a street cart, sticky-fingered and laughing.
When Aditi left, she gifted Vikram a sketch - a man mid-dive between skyscrapers and piano keys. *"Roots need air too,"* she'd scrawled.
At Riya's graduation, Naina wore Vikram's college band T-shirt under her sari. He spotted the doodle on her wrist - a tiny bonsai, roots and wings tangled - and knew Aditi's whisper had reached them both.
Mumbai flowed on, relentless, but in their Altamount Road penthouse, two people relearned the quiet art of unfolding.
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