Today is the day —
Kim'sDay
Always.
— yours, in every life. yours, on every page that follows.
Keep going, my love→
Khushboo —
On every birthday before this one, I was somewhere else.
Today, I am exactly where I was always meant to be: writing your name with the certainty of a man who has stopped looking.
This is my hand. It is yours.
This is my word. It is yours.
This is my life, the rest of it. It is yours.
our story, in chapters
Us, until now
The night we met
A mutual party at the Naval Base. You had been posted there a long while; I was four months in, four days from leaving. A coursemate said your name, and the room rearranged itself around it.
the night we met
A good vibe became gravity
We met four evenings in a row before my deployment ended. Nothing was decided. Everything already was. I went back to my unit knowing I had left something far more important behind.
a good vibe became gravity
Falling, by post and by phone
I fell in love over patchy signal and folded letters. So I asked for a transfer back to where you were. The Navy is generous to a man who has finally figured out where he wants to stand.
falling, by post and by phone
Two officers, three continents
Japan in the cold. The USA on a holiday that felt borrowed. Bhutan with prayer flags fluttering between us. Every Ganga ghat at sunrise, every Ram-mandir we knelt in, every Vande-Mataram dawn we stood through across India. We were a small country with two passports.
two officers, three continents
Civilians, finally
We hung up the whites. And life, in its small joke, sent us to different cities. The distance did the deciding for us — we did not want a long-distance anything; we wanted forever, registered and ringed and public.
civilians, finally
We chose each other, on paper
You walked toward me and I forgot every speech I had rehearsed. We stopped planning a wedding and started planning a life. Karmic, spiritual, signed and sealed — meri jaan, finally.
we chose each other, on paper
Thirty-five, and somehow newer
Your day. Your year. My favourite arithmetic: 1991 plus thirty-five equals the woman I love. Another year older for you, another year deeper for me.
thirty-five, and somehow newer
what you are to me
Khushboo
खुशबू · सुगन्धा
खुशबू (Sanskrit · Hindi)
सुगन्धा — that which makes the air around it kinder. the only scent home has ever had.
a year of reasons
Twelve months,
twelve why-I-loves
one for every page the calendar turns. flip a month to read its reason.
JAN
January
The girl who marched
JAN · why I love you
Because one cold January morning you marched down Rajpath in the Republic Day parade, perfectly in step with women who had earned the right to be there. I think about your back, perfectly straight, every time I see you walk into a room. You were always going to lead.
FEB
February
My birthday, your fuss
FEB · why I love you
Because every February you make a quiet, stubborn fuss for a man who pretends to hate fuss. You bake the wrong cake on purpose just to make me laugh. You write the same line on every card and I pretend, every year, to be surprised.
MAR
March
The 7th — the day we said yes
MAR · why I love you
Because on the 7th of March 2026, you walked toward me in the colour of a slow sunrise and I forgot every speech I had rehearsed. Every March now belongs to that aisle, and the rest of my life belongs to you.
APR
April
Madhumas — the month of honey
APR · why I love you
Because the old Vedic poets called April the month of returning honey — when bees find their flowers and rivers find their banks. April is when I find you in the kitchen humming, and decide all over again. We are each other’s madhumas.
MAY
May
The 7th — the day you arrived
MAY · why I love you
Because on the 7th of May 1991, the world received a small, fierce, romantic person and quietly became more competent. Thirty-five looks like you. Every May is a small private holiday I keep, even when nobody else remembers.
JUN
June
A coursemate said your name
JUN · why I love you
Because in June 2021, a coursemate said your name across a Naval Base party and the rest of my life rearranged itself around it. You were the four longest evenings of my career. I have measured every day since against them.
JUL
July
Leaving Rajali for you
JUL · why I love you
Because in July I packed up Rajali and the Coromandel coast went very quiet. I had loved a place — and learned, suddenly, that there was a person worth leaving a place for. The Navy is generous to a man who has finally figured out where he wants to stand.
AUG
August
Two soaked people, one auto
AUG · why I love you
Because August in India is two soaked people running for the same auto and choosing the same direction every single time. We have outlasted nine monsoons. We will outlast many more. The rain has never made us stop choosing.
SEP
September
The list I have been keeping
SEP · why I love you
Because September is when I started a private list of small things you do — the way you hold a teacup, the way you say no to people who deserve a no, the way you listen to a stranger as if they were family. The list has not stopped growing.
OCT
October
Diyas in places nobody sees
OCT · why I love you
Because every October you light diyas in places nobody can see — for an aunt in some other city, for a stray dog by the gate, for the universe. You light my mother’s house with the same calm certainty you light mine. You are very good at faith.
NOV
November
Winter that looks like spring
NOV · why I love you
Because November is when the world lowers its voice — and you become the loudest beautiful thing in any room you walk into. You make winter look like spring. You make the quiet months feel chosen.
DEC
December
The Annual Ball, finally yours
DEC · why I love you
Because every December the Navy threw its Annual Ball, and a man could measure his year by who he was waiting to dance with. For too many Decembers that person was “someone”. Then it was you. It will be only ever you. Save me the last dance for the rest of our lives.
Proof, in case you ever forget.
us, in frames
tap any frame to see it bigger
empty frame? open the memory closet → layout, and pick which photo goes here.
our international journey
wherever we have stood, together
“I solemnly swear that we are up to good.”
every Ram-mandir, every Ganga ghat, every Vande-Mataram dawn — home
Bharat
Japan
tokyo in the cold; cherry blossoms in spring
an american holiday that felt borrowed
United States
Bhutan
with prayer flags fluttering between us
Wanderlust, but make it monogamous — same boarding queue, same window seat, same “is this airport really charging ₹600 for water?” look across four time zones.
Two ex-officers, four passport stamps, one bag of overpriced airport biscuits we still split exactly in half.
Mischief Managed.
a letter
For you, only.
My Khushboo,
You were born on a May morning in 1991, and I am writing this with a hand that shakes a little because the universe did the most generous thing it has ever done when it let you exist on the same earth as me.
I want to say things I don’t say often enough.
Thank you for the Naval Base party in June 2021. Thank you for the four evenings after. Thank you for being the reason I asked for a transfer back, and then for waiting while a stubborn man caught up to a feeling he had already lost to. You are the only assignment I have ever actually wanted.
Thank you for Japan in the cold and Bhutan in its prayer flags and that long American holiday and every Ganga ghat at sunrise, every Ram-mandir we knelt in, every Vande-Mataram dawn we stood through across India. Wherever we have stood together, I have known I was home. The geography never mattered. You did.
Thank you for being the romantic one. The one who watches Hindi films and English ones with the same wide-open heart. The one who keeps up with three TV families like they were her cousins. You take love seriously, on screen and off it. I am the lucky beneficiary of that seriousness.
Thank you for going back to the sky. Aerospace and defence, take two — the Navy taught you to stand, the new chapter is teaching you to fly. I get a front-row seat. It is the best view I have ever had.
I promise you loyalty. Not the small kind — the kind that is loud, public, lifelong. There is no version of my future where you are not the first name I say.
I promise you commitment. On the boring Tuesdays. In the hospital waiting rooms we hope we never see. On every fight we will have and every make-up we will earn. We are karmic. We are spiritual. We are also two stubborn ex-officers, and somehow that has only ever made us softer with each other.
I promise you love. The unglamorous, daily, choose-you-again kind. The kind that does the dishes. The kind that says sorry first. The kind that grows. The kind that signed its name on 07 March 2026 and meant every letter.
You are my karmic partner. My home. My luck. My favourite story. Meri jaan, in every life. Always.
Happy Kim’s Day, my love. Today the world celebrates you. From tomorrow onward, that is my job — every day, in two cities or one, for the rest of my life.
Yours, always —
Lakku
a small wish
Make one.
Click the flame and make a wish. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it come true.
You + Me
Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow.
Same as every single day after.
Always. — L.
mischief managed.
a sealed envelope
For next year, my love.
I have already started writing your next birthday letter. It will open on 07 May 2027 — your thirty-sixth — at midnight, all on its own.
or whisper the right word and the lock will turn early