The Chair by the Window

When I was a child, there was a chair by the window in my grandparents' house. It was old, wooden, and always creaked when you sat in it—no matter how gently you tried.

But it wasn’t just a chair.

It was his chair.

My grandfather, a man of few words and many habits, claimed that chair like a king on his throne. Every evening at exactly 6:15 PM, he would settle into it with a warm cup of chai in his hand and a woolen shawl around his shoulders—whether it was July or January.

He’d sit there quietly, watching the street outside, nodding to passing neighbors and occasionally tossing breadcrumbs to the sparrows that gathered on the sill.

Sometimes, I’d sit beside him on the floor, leaning against his leg while he sipped slowly. He never said much, but once in a while, he’d reach down and run his hand gently through my hair.

It was the kind of love that didn’t need words.


---

As I grew older, the world moved faster and I moved with it. University, a job in another city, deadlines, emails, calls—I forgot how to sit still, how to just be quiet like he was.

I called home every now and then. Mom always said, “Your Dada’s the same—chai, chair, and silence.”

When I’d visit on holidays, he’d still be there at the window. The same cup, the same time. Only now, the shawl was heavier, the hand that stroked my hair thinner.

But the eyes… still kind.


---

On my last visit before everything changed, I arrived unannounced. It was 6:10 PM. I peeked through the window like I used to as a child.

And there he was.

Except this time, he looked different.

He was staring into his tea. The sparrows chirped nearby, but he didn’t move.

I walked in. He looked up and smiled faintly.

“Back early,” he said.

I nodded. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

He gestured toward the floor. I sat.

Silence wrapped around us like a familiar blanket.

After a moment, he spoke—quietly, like a secret slipping from his lips.

“You know, I watch the sun fall in the same spot every day. But yesterday… it looked different. Like it was saying goodbye.”

I looked up at him, confused.

He smiled, his eyes moist.

“You won’t understand until much later,” he said, “but sunsets... they don’t repeat. They just look similar.”


---

A week later, I got the call.

Heart failure. Peaceful. In his sleep.

They said he still had the shawl wrapped around him.

The teacup was on the bedside table.

But the chair… it was empty.


---

After the funeral, I stayed behind to help Mom sort through his things.

I kept returning to the chair. I don’t know why.

Something about it felt like a memory I didn’t want to forget.

The third day after his burial, while cleaning out a drawer in his old writing desk, I found a letter.

Folded neatly. Yellowed from time.

It was addressed to me.


---

> To my little sparrow,

If you’re reading this, I’ve likely taken my last sunset walk.

I don’t have great advice, and I’ve never believed in long speeches. But I wanted you to know… the chair by the window wasn’t just where I watched the world go by.

It was where I watched you grow.

From crawling to talking, from breaking windows with cricket balls to breaking your curfew. I sat there quietly, and I saw it all.

That chair held all my pride, all my hopes, and more than anything, my love for you.

Don’t fill it with sorrow.

Sit in it. Drink your tea. Talk to the sparrows.

And when the sunset looks a little different one day, know that it’s me—waving from somewhere you can’t see yet.

Love always,
Dada




---

I didn’t cry.

I sat in his chair instead.

And for the first time in years, I did nothing.

Just watched the street.

Listened to the sparrows.

And waited for the sun to say something to me.

It didn’t.

But I knew he was there.