I remember the exact moment this story was born—not the one inside the book, but the one I’m about to tell you.

It was a rainy Wednesday afternoon, and I was sitting across from a talented young illustrator who had just shown me her final spread for our upcoming picture book. It was breathtaking. Watercolours danced into each other like music—shadows softened, leaves glowed, eyes sparkled. The book was called “The Smallest Yes”, a gentle, luminous tale about a child who learns that the smallest acts of kindness—saying yes to helping a friend, yes to telling the truth, yes to facing a fear—can transform the world around them.

I was quiet for a long time.

She looked nervous. “Do you think it’s too much?” she asked.

“No,” I whispered. “It’s perfect.”

And it was. Every stroke of paint captured the heart of the story we were trying to tell. The kind of story that doesn’t just entertain—it plants seeds. Seeds of empathy, of courage, of reflection. The kind of story that, years later, a grown-up might remember not for the plot, but for the way it made them feel safe, or brave, or seen.

But as I leaned back in my chair, the reality of the numbers came crashing in again.

Printing a high-quality picture book like this—full bleed, full color, heavy matte pages, hardbound—it’s not cheap. Add in the months of back-and-forth between author, illustrator, and editor; the cost of layouts and design; the gentle touches of gold foil on the cover that children always love to run their fingers over—well, let’s just say it’s not exactly an “economical” business decision.

And that’s the heartbreak of being a picture book publisher in today’s world.

Parents walk into bookstores, flip over our books, and wince. “₹399? ₹450? For a children’s book?” they ask, eyebrows raised. "It's so thin." And I understand. Truly, I do.

Because when you stack it next to a chunky novel that sells for the same price—or less—it can feel like a mismatch. They don’t always see what I see.

1. They don’t see the three months the illustrator spent sketching expressions for a single page.
2. They don’t see the quiet war the writer fought trying to get the right 200 words.
3. They don’t see the hours spent choosing just the right shade of blue for a sky that’s meant to reflect hope.

All they see is that it’ll be read in ten minutes, maybe fifteen. And I don’t blame them for hesitating.

But let me tell you something else that happened last month.

We had a reading session at a school in Bangalore. One of our authors stood in front of 50 children, reading “The Smallest Yes”. The story moved through scenes of a child who quietly helps a classmate clean up a spilt lunchbox, who stands up for a kid being teased, and who offers their last toffee to a younger sibling. No preaching. No capital-M Morals. Just honest, tender storytelling and pages that felt like windows to something soft and true.

At the end of the reading, one child raised his hand.

“I liked how the kid didn’t think they were doing something big,” he said. “But it still made a difference.”

That’s when I knew: this is why we do it.

Not for sales graphs. Not for literary awards. For that moment. For the invisible click inside a young mind and heart that says—this matters.

As a publisher, I’ve had to explain to printers why I want a slightly thicker paper, even if it costs more per copy. I’ve had to talk authors out of self-doubt after their manuscript was rejected elsewhere for being “too quiet.” I’ve spent sleepless nights worrying whether bookstores will even stock our book next to the international bestsellers with branded characters.

And still, I do it.

Because picture books, when done right, are not just for children.

They are reminders—for all of us—of how to look at the world with softness. They teach us what adults often forget: how to pause, notice, and ask questions.

They are the first mirrors and windows a child ever encounters.

A well-made picture book respects a child's intelligence and the adult reading it aloud. It’s an invitation to conversation. It’s a bond over bedtime. It’s a memory waiting to be made.

Now, about that “cost.”

What is the cost of a picture book?

Yes, the price tag might say ₹399. But the real “cost” is the risk we take when we choose meaning over mass appeal. When we choose poetry over trendiness. When we choose stories that say “it’s okay to feel” over ones that are just fast and flashy.

But the return? Oh, the return is priceless.

When a parent tells us, “My daughter wants to read it every night.”

When a teacher says, “We had a full class discussion after that story.”

When a grandparent whispers, “It reminded me of something I had forgotten in myself.”

That’s when I know the cost is worth it.

Still, I often wish things were easier.

I wish people understood that these books are often hand-crafted art. Unlike mass-market paperbacks, picture books are printed with specific inks, precise alignments, bindings that must endure rough toddler hands, and original works of art illustrations.

I wish picture books were not seen as “starter books” but as forever books.

I wish parents didn’t feel guilty for buying them. They saw it as an investment in their child’s heart, not just their reading level.

So yes, I’m a picture book publisher. I produce expensive books that people sometimes hesitate to buy.

But I also produce joy.

I publish wonder.

I package values in pages a child will carry quietly inside them for years.

If you’re holding one of our books in your hand, know this—it is the result of immense love, labour, and belief.

And if you ever wonder whether it’s worth the price?

Ask the child who sees themselves in that story.

Ask the teacher who used it to start a conversation about kindness.

Ask the parent whose child said, “Read it again.”

Ask me.

I’ll say yes—every single time.

Support picture book creators. Buy original. Gift a story. And if you loved a book, tell someone about it. Stories grow when they’re shared.