Falling Destiny

Episode 4 : "A surprise is waiting"

The sun had begun to set behind the scattered skyline of Delhi as I stepped out of the academy, wiping the thin layer of sweat from my brow with the back of my sleeve. The ache in my calves from hours of rehearsals was oddly satisfying — the kind of pain that reminded you that you're alive and moving forward, step by step.

But there was no time to breathe. No pause. I had another world to step into.

I jogged lightly to the nearest metro station, weaving through evening crowds and the sounds of honking autos and shouting vendors. This part of the day was always a blur — the transition between Neha-the-dance-instructor and Neha-the-baker. Two different roles, two different uniforms, two different lives… and yet, both deeply me.

By the time I reached the quaint little bakery tucked in a quiet corner of Saket, the sky had deepened into hues of soft lavender and burnt orange. I exhaled a long breath as I pushed open the door.

A warm, familiar wave of home wrapped itself around me.

The smell hit me first — that comforting blend of melted dark chocolate, toasty vanilla, and cinnamon sugar. There’s something about the scent of baked goods that softens even the hardest days. It’s like a hug in the form of fragrance. Every time I walk in, it feels like the world slows down for a heartbeat.

“Neha diii!” a cheerful voice called out from behind the counter. Srishti — our always-bubbly server — waved with flour-streaked fingers. “Thank God you’re here! We’re packed, and I’m drowning in orders.”

I laughed, tying my apron around my waist. “Don’t worry, soldier. Reinforcements have arrived.”

I headed straight to the kitchen, where the chaos was already in full swing. Mixing bowls clattered, timers beeped, and the low hum of kitchen life filled the air. This chaos didn’t overwhelm me — it energized me. If dance was my rebellion, baking was my calm. The method to my madness.

There’s something inexplicably satisfying about transforming raw ingredients into comfort. A cracked egg, a scoop of flour, a swirl of melted chocolate — each one a humble beginning to something magical.

“Dark chocolate pastry with stuffed choco chips for table seven, and an apple pie with strawberry syrup for table eight,” Srishti hollered as she peeked into the kitchen.

I slid on a pair of gloves and nodded. “Already prepping the pastry!”

I started whisking the chocolate glaze, humming a tune under my breath, while the oven gently roasted the crusts. The richness of the chocolate, the subtle bitterness of the chips, the buttery crisp of the crust — I loved every note of it.

Three years. That’s how long I’d been at this bakery. And in those three years, I had poured my heart into every cupcake, pie, and tart I’d ever made. This place wasn’t just a job — it was a chapter of my healing. It gave me structure, peace, and unexpected joy.

Many of the regulars knew me by name. Some would ask for their favorites with a wink, and others would just leave the choice to me, trusting I’d give them something comforting. There’s a quiet, simple love in being remembered that way.

I carefully garnished the pastry with a drizzle of dark ganache, crushed roasted almonds, and a sprinkle of sea salt before handing it to Srishti.

“Chocolate pastry, ready to go,” I called.

But before I could move on to the apple pie, Srishti poked her head back in.

“Hey, someone at table twelve is asking for you specifically,” she said, arching an eyebrow with curiosity. “They said they want your ‘special dish of the day.’”

I paused mid-motion. “Did they say my name?”

“Nope. Just asked for the baker who makes the ‘crazy combinations that somehow work.’ So… obviously you,” she smirked.

That made me chuckle. I wiped my hands and turned to the far side of the kitchen — where she stood like the silent pulse of the place — Mrs. Anuradha Shah. My Anu aunty.

In her sixties now, with silver streaks elegantly woven through her black bun, she was the kind of woman who didn’t speak much but made every word feel like a stitch in the heart. She wore her past with grace, her losses with wisdom, and her love with restraint. To me, she was more than my employer. She was a mentor, a guide, and the only motherly presence I’d had in years.

She looked up from her ledgers as I approached, her eyes crinkling in that familiar fondness. “What’s the special today, Neha?”

“Apple pie,” I answered, “but with a twist. Stuffed with strawberry ice cream, topped with fresh berries, and drizzled with lemon glaze.”

Her lips curved upward. “You’re always creating magic from thin air.”

“Magic or madness, we’ll find out,” I teased, plating one carefully for her and another for the guest outside.

I held my breath as she took a bite. She closed her eyes and chewed slowly. I could almost see the memories dancing behind her eyelids — of her own bakery beginnings, of days when love and food healed things no medicine could.

A long pause.

Then a soft sigh.

“It’s heavenly, beta,” she whispered.

The knot in my chest loosened.

I carried the second plate toward the café front, weaving through the busy tables with practiced ease. The chatter of customers, the clinking of cutlery, and the warmth of shared joy enveloped the space.

With that vote of confidence, I carried the other plate out, only to stop in surprise when I saw the familiar face at table twelve.