October has barely begun, and I had hoped — rather optimistically, perhaps — that it would be kinder to me this year.

It wasn’t.

On the second day of October, I came down with allergic pharyngitis.

It probably shouldn’t have surprised me. The previous day had been one of those absurdly long days that have become almost routine since I started refurbishing Savera. I had gone to Alfa to pick up an artefact, but ended up picking up a host of things. An artificial plant that had been sitting in storage was one of them.

By evening, my throat was beginning to feel irritated. I ignored it.

By the following morning, it was painful enough that I had to start medication — something I hadn’t needed to do in quite some time.

And so, barely forty-eight hours into October, I found myself thinking: Of course. Why would October be any different?

My life lately has become a curious combination of renovation project management, furniture hunting, electricians, carpenters, painters, lighting, artefacts, artificial plants, endless decisions and an almost pathological fear that I will forget something and have to make another trip later.

On the second, I spent much of the afternoon walking around the furniture lane in Oshiwara, looking for a coffee table for Geeta (we’re making do with cushions for dish placements) and things for the showcase at Savera. Earlier, I had been at the house checking what the painters had done, asking whether the rooms had been cleaned and discussing what still needed to happen. Then I went back again in the evening to speak to the electrician and discuss new fittings and lights.

Then I came home.

That, more or less, is what a day in my life looks like these days.

And somewhere in the middle of all this chaos is Anand.

My partner. My compatriot. My co-conspirator.

My Rock of Gibraltar.

Twenty-six years.

That’s how long we’ve been doing this thing called life together, and I honestly don’t know where I would be without him.

Since my aunts passed away, I have felt a kind of loneliness that is difficult to explain. My aunts have always had my back, and I was incredibly fortunate to have them. There is a particular kind of comfort in having people who know you instinctively — people you can turn to without having to explain yourself.

I miss that.

Anand doesn’t understand me completely.

Nobody does.

And, to be fair, there are plenty of times when I don’t understand Anand either.

But he has my back.

And there is an enormous difference between those two things.

That distinction has become particularly clear during this renovation.

He has been part chauffeur, part sounding board, part co-project-manager and part unwilling participant in my increasingly elaborate ideas. He works from home, as I do, and has driven me around, helped me make plans, spoken to contractors and listened to me rail about mistakes, delays, costs and things that haven’t been done the way I imagined.

But I should be fair to him.

This isn’t a story about me having grand visions while Anand patiently follows along behind me.

Anand has his own ideas.

He is stubborn about them too.

He forgets things.

He can be careless.

He can be messy.

There are times when I have to remind him about things, just as there are times when he has to remind me.

There are decisions where I will look at him and think, How on earth did you arrive at that conclusion?

And I’m sure he has had exactly the same thought about me.

That is the reality of twenty-six years together.

You don’t spend a quarter of a century with someone without discovering their irritating habits.

You don’t become someone’s partner without occasionally wanting to shake them.

And you certainly don’t renovate a house together without finding out exactly how stubborn both of you can be.

But somewhere beneath all that is something much more important.

We show up for each other.

Recently, I went out thinking I had a fairly specific list of things I wanted to look at. Anand was the one who pointed out the plants. He was the one who suggested we check out the lighting shop. He remembered that we needed a new modem. He thought about the HDMI cable I needed for my PS5.

I had gone out looking for artefacts.

He helped turn the trip into a much more practical list of things that actually needed doing.

And that is one of the things I value about him.

Not that he always gets it right.

He doesn’t.

Neither do I.

But he notices things I don’t.

And I notice things he doesn’t.

That is how we’ve worked for twenty-six years.

Take our spectacular inability to bargain.

Neither of us can do it.

A carpenter recently quoted ₹4,000 for a door measuring about one and a half feet by two feet. I thought that was expensive, but neither Anand nor I bargained.

When I complained afterwards, Anand pointed out something rather sensible: if I wanted to negotiate, I should have done it before the work began, not after the carpenter had already put in the effort.

I couldn’t really argue with that.

We are both soft-hearted in that particular way. We understand that there is another person on the other side of the transaction, someone who has spent time and effort doing the work.

We both have this slightly ridiculous tendency to think, Well, it’s only money.

Of course, that doesn’t mean we always agree about money.

Anand frequently asks whether I really need something.

I frequently believe that I absolutely do.

I went out intending to buy one artificial plant.

I came back with three.

Anand asked, more than once, whether we really needed the other two.

I ignored him.

He was probably right.

But I also know why I did it. I don’t want to find myself halfway through the renovation thinking, Oh, that plant would have been perfect there, and then have to start the entire search again.

There is a little bit of FOMO in furnishing a house.

There is also, admittedly, a little bit of me being me.

And that’s where Anand and I balance each other — sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

He tries to rein me in.

I sometimes persuade him to let me have my way.

Sometimes he is right.

Sometimes I am.

Sometimes neither of us is.

And sometimes we simply get tired of arguing and move on.

That, too, is twenty-six years together.

We have also been known to have completely different ideas about what belongs in the house.

Today, while we were looking at artefacts, Anand spotted a rocking horse with flower designs on it — a very kitschy Rajasthani-style piece.

He liked it.

My sister and I took one look and decided that it absolutely could not go into the showcase.

Neither side was particularly interested in being persuaded.

And honestly, that’s fine.

Anand doesn’t have my eye for colour, furniture placement and decorative detail. But then, I don’t have his eye for everything either.

He sees things I don’t.

He remembers things I forget.

He forgets things I remember.

He can be stubborn.

So can I.

He can be careless.

So can I.

He can be messy.

I would prefer not to discuss this particular category too closely.

But when something really matters, he is there.

And that is the part I don’t want to lose sight of in the middle of all the renovation madness.

I’ve put nearly ₹4 lakh into Savera already, and the renovation isn’t finished yet. There will be more money spent, more decisions made and more things that inevitably go wrong and have to be fixed.

Anand has contributed financially too.

More importantly, he has contributed his time.

He has driven me around Mumbai. He has come with me to look at things. He has spoken to people. He has helped me think through decisions. He has listened to me complain. He has told me when I’m going overboard.

And yes, sometimes he has shouted at me.

Sometimes I’ve deserved it.

Sometimes I haven’t.

Sometimes I’ve shouted back.

That’s us.

It isn’t perfect.

It isn’t supposed to be.

There is a temptation, when writing about a long relationship, to turn the other person into some impossibly patient saint who has spent twenty-six years nobly tolerating your eccentricities.

That isn’t Anand.

And it isn’t me.

We are two imperfect people who have somehow managed to build a life together.

We annoy each other.

We forget things.

We disagree.

We get stubborn.

We occasionally make terrible decisions.

We sometimes spend too much money.

We sometimes think the other person is being completely unreasonable.

And then, somehow, we get into the car together and go and look at another light fitting.

Because underneath all those little irritations is the thing that matters.

He shows up.

After my aunts died, I became much more conscious of how alone a person can feel, even when there are people around them.

My aunts had always given me that feeling of having someone in my corner. I miss that terribly.

Anand cannot replace them.

He doesn’t need to.

He is something different.

He is the person who has chosen to stand beside me for twenty-six years.

He doesn’t always understand me.

He doesn’t always agree with me.

He doesn’t always have the right answer.

He doesn’t always remember what I told him five minutes ago.

And he can be every bit as stubborn, careless and messy as I can.

But when I need him, he is there.

And when he needs me, I am there.

Perhaps that’s what a partnership really is.

Not finding somebody who completes you.

Not finding somebody who never annoys you.

Not finding somebody who agrees with everything you say.

Finding somebody with whom you can be completely yourself — difficult, unreasonable, generous, stubborn, silly, anxious, excited, messy, particular and occasionally impossible — and still know that they are going to be standing beside you at the end of the day.

Someone who will tell you that three artificial plants are excessive.

Someone who will then help you figure out where to put them.

Someone who will argue with you about money.

Someone who will still help pay for the things you eventually buy.

Someone who will tell you that your idea is ridiculous.

Someone who will drive you there anyway.

That is Anand.

Twenty-six years later, he is still my Rock of Gibraltar.

The phrase was used to describe him to me nearly twenty years ago, and I remember it because it felt right then.

It feels even more right now.

Because a rock doesn’t have to agree with you.

It doesn’t have to understand every thought in your head.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.

It simply has to be there.

And Anand has been there.

Through twenty-six years of life, through its absurdities and its heartbreaks, through all the ordinary days and the extraordinary ones, through arguments and laughter and mistakes and forgiveness.

And now, apparently, through artificial plants, electricians, carpenters, painters, furniture shopping and a renovation that seems determined to consume my entire life.

October may have started with a sore throat.

Savera may still be driving me slightly mad.

The house may still be unfinished.

And Anand and I may still be completely incapable of bargaining.

But when I look around at the chaos, there is one thing I know.

I’m not doing it alone.

I have him.

And after twenty-six years, that still feels like one of the greatest pieces of luck in my life.