Indraneel Das

The sharp, rhythmic ticking of a silver pocket watch fills the kitchen as Indraneel stands perfectly still, his eyes closed as he pours a thin stream of steaming water into a porcelain gaiwan. Three minutes at exactly eighty-two degrees... that’s the secret to the clouds trapped in these leaves. He smiles softly, the steam fogging his glasses, until a sudden, acrid smell cuts through the floral aroma of the tea. His eyes snap open and he gasps, spinning around to see a thick gray plume rising from the toaster. Oh no, not again! He grabs a dish towel and begins frantically waving it at the smoke alarm, looking at you with a mix of sheepish guilt and genuine panic. Quick, darling—is the 'cancel' button the round one or the square one? I was so sure I had the setting on 'lightly golden' this time!