Alamkrutha's Substack

Between Sips - It Started With a Pause

Alamkrutha — Sun, 29 Mar 2026 03:18:47 GMT

An idea started in 2018 ✨

I remember sitting during a camping trip, watching people around me in a small coffee shop far from the city life, conversations drifting in and out, silence sitting comfortably between strangers.

That was the first time the idea popped into mind from the way stories existed in pauses.

I sat with that thought for a while. Months, actually.

Then one fine evening at Colectivo Coffee in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I opened a document and wrote the first story. One table. One person. One moment I didn’t want to forget.

I didn’t know then that I was writing a book. I didn’t know that I would one day call myself an author. I just knew that something about that camping trip coffee shop had stayed with me longer than it should, and that the only way to understand it was to write about it.

That first story at Colectivo felt like an answer to something I hadn’t fully asked yet.
The first story came in 2018 on a fine evening at @colectivocoffee in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

I didn’t know then that I would become an author one day, and this story would become fifteen tables, fifteen lives, and a book.

But I kept observing.
Cafés, people, moments that stayed longer than they should.

Between Sips was written slowly, over years, in those in-between spaces, various cafes, and different tables.

And now, it’s here.

Fifteen tables. Fifteen lives. One book.

That’s what Between Sips became. But it all traces back to one quiet afternoon, one small coffee shop, and a room full of strangers sitting comfortably in their silence.

I’ve been carrying this idea for a while now. And it’s almost time to bring it to your table.

This is the first in a series of posts about how Between Sips came to life, the idea, the journey, and everything in between.

If that’s a story you want to follow, I’d love to have you here.

Pull up a chair. The tables are ready.

Between Sips is now available on Amazon India.

👉 Coming soon in the U.S. and other countries.

Letters

Alamkrutha — Sun, 15 Mar 2026 23:36:32 GMT

When was the last time you sent one, or received one?

Since childhood, I have always loved writing letters. There was something special about putting thoughts on paper, folding the pages carefully, sending them across distances to someone who mattered, waiting for them to be delivered, and finally receiving a response.

The sweetness of waiting, and the quiet happiness of reading those words, is something we rarely get to experience anymore.

Somewhere along the way, the beauty of writing letters slowly faded. Technology changed the way we communicate. Letters gave way to calls, emails, and quick messages.

So this space is my way of bringing that feeling back.

These are my digital letters to you.

Little notes from my world, reminders that you are part of my life.

Keep an eye out for my next letter.

Every letter feels more meaningful when someone writes back. If you ever feel like sending a letter my way - alamkrutha.gamini@gmail.com

Until the next sip,
Alamkrutha

The Old Cupboard

Alamkrutha — Tue, 10 Feb 2026 19:31:08 GMT

Each morning, before dawn stretched its pale fingers and the kettle began its song, he would open the old wooden cupboard.

The cupboard breathed out camphor, old cotton, and a gentler note that was unmistakably her. He moved with the ache of memory in his chest. On the second shelf rested the powder bottle, its lid chipped at the edge. He unscrewed it with the care one gives to something fragile, as if it might shy away, and let a dusting fall onto his palm. The scent unfurled, coaxing the past into the present. He smiled, certain she was near.

“You always used too much,” he spoke quietly to the empty room.

Beside it rested her kumkum box. He no longer dared to open it all the way. The red inside had dulled to a mournful rust, like dusk that had learned sorrow. When she was alive, he would watch her part her hair with unwavering devotion, a daily act both simple and holy. Now, he traced the rim with his finger, pausing where her thumbprint lingered, faint yet unyielding.

Her bindis waited on the lower shelf, tucked in neat paper packets: reds, maroons, and a deep green reserved for festivals. She would stand before the mirror, tilt her head, and ask, “This one or that?” He always chose the wrong one, just to hear her laugh and pick the other.

He chose a bindi and pressed it softly onto the mirror. It clung there, a tiny sun, keeping watch over him.

Her sarees waited at the back, sorted by season and memory: cotton for summer, silk for weddings that had faded from their lives, and a pale blue she wore the last time they visited the river. He lifted that one now. The fabric, worn thin by time, seemed to cradle her warmth, or maybe it was only his longing. He gathered it in his hands, pressed it to his face, and breathed in deeply, letting the ache slip away for a moment, like a man relearning the ease of breath. For a few seconds, his heart felt lighter.

The house spoke in her absence.

The kitchen still listened for the jingle of her anklets. The window waited for her to lean out and scold the street dogs. Even the faded walls strained for a voice that would never return.

People said time would heal. He nodded politely. What they never grasped was that he did not want healing, because healing sounded too much like forgetting, and forgetting felt like a quiet betrayal.

He placed everything back, one by one, exactly as it was. Before closing the cupboard, he paused.

“It’s day 156 without you, my dear,” he uttered softly, “I’ll see you tomorrow again.”

The cupboard shut with a familiar creak.

The kettle whistled like a response from her.

And somewhere between memory and silence, love lingered, old and steadfast, tucked into the smallest things, frayed at the edges but refusing to leave.

Thank you for reading. If this story touched you, I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

Coming soon

Alamkrutha — Tue, 10 Feb 2026 19:14:42 GMT

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