The constant, grating noise of Delhi had replaced the silence of the mountains. It wasn't just loud; it was dense, an oppressive fabric woven from honks, generator buzz, vendor cries, and the perpetual, arguing murmur of a million people. Mira realized quickly that the noise never truly stopped—it merely changed volume.
The second-floor apartment in Lajpat Nagar was designed to keep the world out, but it failed spectacularly. The single air conditioner unit whirred uselessly against the dry, penetrating summer heat, and the aroma of the city—a mix of spices, exhaust, and stale water—seeped through the metal window frames.
Arun, however, thrived on the urgency. He had secured a temporary, highly stressful job with a logistics firm coordinating supply chains for small businesses. It was gruelling, paid barely enough to cover the rent and basic food, but it was fast, and it gave him a crash course in Delhi's aggressive market dynamics.
He left before the sun was high, often without Mira waking up, and returned after midnight, smelling of sweat, cheap chai, and ambition.
"Three-point delivery radius in Nehru Place—we can do better than that, Mira," he'd mumble, half-asleep, as she brought him a glass of water. "The market is hungry, love. It just needs direction."
Mira's days were a monotonous loop. She woke up to the sound of the vegetable Seller shouting in the lane below. She cooked a full Himachal meal—dal, rice, and simple vegetable—the rich, clean flavours a desperate attempt to create a pocket of home within the city's concrete heart. The biggest challenge was getting groceries. The market was a frightening maze. Every shopkeeper seemed to yell at her to buy, grabbing her arm or shoving a product in her face.
In the mountains, people were cautious, taking time to size you up before engaging. Here, they were instantly familiar, overwhelmingly close. She learned to keep her head down, say a quick, firm 'no,' and hurry back to the sanctuary of their cramped flat.
One afternoon, standing alone at the window, watching a group of teenager's speed past on a scooter, she felt a crippling loneliness. The local women mostly kept to their own family units, or viewed her—the outsider, the Pahari girl—with reserved curiosity. She missed the long, shared afternoons of community work and gossip at the village stream. She missed knowing her neighbour's histories.
Needing a creative outlet to counter the emotional drain, Mira cleared the small, rickety dining table. She brought out the smooth-grained cedar wood that Arun had secretly packed for her, and her small box of charcoal pencils. This was where she began to build A&M stores in earnest.
Her first task was the logo. Arun wanted something sharp, modern, and business-like. Mira drew a simple, ancient deodar pine—not the full, towering tree, but the image of its strong, tenacious roots gripping a rock face. It was beautiful, simple, and perfectly captured the duality of their situation: a foundation built on endurance, ready to withstand the Delhi storm.
She spent hours sketching label designs for the specialty wild honey and apricot jam they planned to source. Each drawing was an act of worship to the landscape she missed, a promise that this business wouldn't just be about profit, but about preserving the integrity of their home.
When Arun finally came home that Friday night, exhausted and smelling faintly of petrol, he found Mira asleep at the table, her head resting on a sketchpad.
He quietly lifted the sketchpad. The charcoal drawing showed the logo in rich detail, alongside a mock-up jar label: Himachal Wildflower Honey, Hand-Gathered. He saw not just a drawing, but a future. A moment of clarity pierced his exhaustion. He had been so focused on the how—the money, the logistics, the hustle—that he had forgotten the why. Mira was the soul of this venture.
He gently shook her awake. "Mira," he whispered, his voice soft for the first time all week. "This is incredible. This design, it feels... true."
Mira blinked, still half in the world of mountains. She looked around their tight, dusty room, then back at the drawing, a piece of the high Himalayas transposed onto a cheap Delhi tabletop.
"We need capital, Arun," she said, her voice clear. "But we also need a voice. This is our voice."
Arun sat down, pulling his weary, pragmatic mind back to their shared dream. He looked at the logo, at the deep roots holding fast. "You're right. We have enough savings for another month of this job, but then... we have to make the leap. Tomorrow, we focus only on the business plan. We find the right space—the one the plan outline says is affordable. We start digging the roots right here."
He was still tired, but the tremor in his hands was gone. For the first time since leaving home, the roar of the city outside didn't sound like chaos; it sounded like anticipation.