The Fifth Draft

Bur Dubai was quieter than usual. Maybe it was the mid-July heat or maybe just George’s mind slowing down after his final day at the EPC firm on Sheikh Zayed Road.

Thirty-three years in instrumentation. Sixteen of them in Dubai. Today marked his retirement.

His farewell lunch had been brief but heartfelt—vegetarian special thali and butter milk at the Malayali restaurant near the office, colleagues snapping selfies around him, clinking steel tumblers in his honour. No big speeches, just a nod to the man who always had the cleanest wiring diagrams and the calmest voice during a failed FAT.

George had signed the final clearance forms, returned his access card, and taken a long look at the now-vacant cubicle he'd once called his second home. In his backpack, he carried a small folder in a USB stick—something not related to any project or handover. It was his story. His.

Anjali was humming Kadhali Chenkadhali, the old Lata Mangeshkar number, when he entered their apartment. The familiar scent of Malabar Monsoon coffee lingered in the air. She wore fresh jasmine flowers in her hair, as always, even if there was nowhere to go. “Supper’s almost ready,” she smiled, “but please change first—you’re still in office mood.”

George peeled off his formal shirt and neatly folded his trousers, trading them for his house wear: a white undershirt and a faded, half-folded lungi knotted just above the knees.

Later, over dinner, he mentioned the story.

Siva, his friend and ex-colleague turned part-time writer, had been coaxing him for months. “It doesn’t have to win prizes,” Siva would say, adjusting margins with absurd precision. “It just needs to live outside your head.”

They had chatted often about book covers, formatting quirks, and the occasional rogue font. Siva even offered to help design the layout. “KDP’s dashboard isn’t too bad,” he’d said once, “but man, their cover preview tool is unforgiving.”

George had smiled at that. “Let me try this myself,” he had said, eyes gleaming behind his bifocals.

The story wasn’t earth-shattering. It was about an engineer from Thrissur who spent decades abroad and began questioning what 'home' really meant. No villains, no plot twists—just slices of life, like hot banana chips passed over a balcony railing by a friendly neighbor.

Rajesh Pillai, that neighbor, knocked gently later that evening. “Congratulations, George-etta,” he said, handing over a warm packet. “Plantain chips—fresh from Lulu.”

George smiled, “I owe you tea.”

“Coffee,” Rajesh corrected, grinning. “We’re from Kerala, aren’t we?”

That night, after Anjali had gone to bed, George sat at the dining table with his aging laptop. He opened the document, now titled The Fifth Draft, and navigated to the Kindle Direct Publishing portal.

He hesitated.

Not at the “Publish” button — not yet — but at the metadata form.

Title: The Fifth Draft

That part was easy.

Subtitle:

He stared at the blinking cursor.

Was it A Journey Through Memory and Middle Age? Or too dramatic?

Reflections of an Engineer Abroad? Too textbook.

He left it blank.

Categories:

He chose Literary Fiction, then changed it to Contemporary Fiction, then hovered over Memoir for a long second.

Eventually, he checked both Contemporary Fiction and Memoir. He added Drama as well.

It felt like labeling emotions with barcodes.

Keywords:

He typed slowly:

"retirement, Dubai, engineer, self-publishing, nostalgia, Kerala, life story."

Then deleted “nostalgia.” Then added it back. Then replaced it with “identity.”

Then sighed and left them all.

Amazon Description:

How does one describe a book not meant to be read?

After fifteen minutes and four rewrites, he settled for:

A quiet story of memory, migration, and midlife. Written more for peace than praise.

Cover Upload:

A beige mock cover with a quiet desert and a single wooden bench. Nothing fancy.

Pricing:

He blinked. $2.99? $0.99? Free?

He hovered over the “Free Promotion” option, then unchecked it.

“Let’s not be desperate,” he muttered.

Finally, he chose $1.99. Enough to feel real. Small enough to feel invisible.

Review:

He clicked through the previewer. Typos? Possibly.

Flow? Patchy.

Formatting? Acceptable.

He imagined Siva’s voice teasing in the background, “George, your designs are tighter than Dubai traffic signals.”

He took a deep breath and stared at the final screen.

A sudden wave of nervousness swept through him.

What if the formatting was off? What if the line breaks didn’t work on smaller screens? Was "Kerala" too regional? Should he have chosen a more marketable title?

He double-checked the line spacing. Re-read the description.

Even peeked at a rival short story listed under "Contemporary Fiction" and frowned at its overly cheerful blurb.

What if nobody even noticed it was published? Or worse—what if someone did, and pointed out that Chapter 3 didn’t transition well?

For a moment, he considered deleting the whole thing and pretending the idea never existed.

His eyes wandered to the corner of the screen, where the file had autosaved as “Final_Final_Rev_5.”

He laughed softly.

No going back now.

Then came the final screen where it said “Publish.”

His finger hovered.

This wasn’t for readers, really. Not for sales, reviews, or algorithms. This was for him.

For the quiet that had built up over years of compliance checklists and lunch eaten in server rooms.

For the times he thought, No one will care about this, and kept writing anyway.

He clicked.

A message popped up:

"Your eBook has been submitted."

No trumpet. No confetti. Just a subtle shift in the world — like the smell of rain on a sunbaked Dubai street.

He looked out of the window at the distant skyline, glass towers glowing faintly in the dark. Somewhere across the Gulf, his children—now settled in Thiruvananthapuram and Singapore—could be scrolling through reels, busy with lives that no longer needed his alarm clock voice.

He didn’t tell them about the book. Maybe he never would.

But for now, it existed.

He closed the laptop gently. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel the weight of the day clinging to his shoulders.

In that moment, George didn’t feel like a failure.

Not a success either—but something else.

He felt human.

And that, perhaps, was enough.