“Two Teas and a Pause”

 

Every Sunday at 4:00 p.m. sharp, Mrs. Krishna would open her balcony door, place two cups of tea on the wooden table, and sit in the chair closest to the sun.

The second chair was always empty.

Her neighbors had stopped asking who the second cup was few years ago. Some assumed it was her late husband. Others thought it was a habit too comforting to break. But Mrs. Krishna knew better.

It was for Thara — the girl who used to live upstairs.

Ten years ago, when Thara was just twelve and her parents were always busy, she’d sneak down to Mrs. Krishna’s house. At first it was for her biscuits. Then it was for the silence. Eventually, it was for the stories.

She would sit cross-legged on the floor, sipping sweet chai, listening to tales of her youth — how she once played Juliet in a college play, how she loved gardening, and how the smell of first rain made her cry.

“Why don’t you ever sit in the second chair? “She once asked.

“Because it’s yours,” she had smiled.

Then one day, she left — for college, for life, for the world that demanded growing up.

Years passed.

Mrs. Krishna kept the ritual. Always two cups. Always one chair empty.

Until one Sunday, ten years later, the doorbell rang at 3:59 p.m.

Thara stood there, a little taller, eyes a little wiser, holding a packet of biscuits.

“I heard you never stopped making tea, “she said softly.

Mrs. Krishna didn’t cry , but with the tears of smile , She simply stepped aside and said, “Your chair’s waiting.”

The key takeaway:

Some moments never leave us. And some chairs, no matter how long they stay empty, always remember who they belong to.