Every night, he thought he would call tomorrow.
Every night after dinner, Appa sat in the same wooden chair near the window.
The television was on, but the volume was low. Not because he wasn’t interested. Just low enough that he could hear if someone called.
His phone stayed on the table, always face up.
Most nights, he opened WhatsApp, scrolled through the list, and stopped at Arjun.
He wouldn’t call.
Sometimes he typed, “How are you?”
Sometimes, “Eating properly?”
Once, he typed, “Call when free.”
He read it once, deleted it, and put the phone down.
“He must be busy,” he told Amma.
“Let him call when he has time.”
This became a small ritual.
Type. Pause. Delete. Tomorrow.
Arjun lived in another city and worked long hours. He called on Sundays when he remembered, which was not every Sunday.
When he did call, Appa always began with the same question.
“What did you eat?”
“Appa, hello to you too.”
“Hello. What did you eat?”
“Rice.”
“Again?”
“What else?”
Appa would laugh.
Then he would ask about work.
Then the weather.
Then, usually, “Okay, go. You have work.”
“I can talk.”
“No, no. Go.”
“Okay.”
And they would hang up.
One Tuesday, Appa’s phone rang while he was cutting a guava.
He wiped his hand on his shirt before answering.
“Hello?”
“Appa.”
“Hmm?”
“Nothing. Just calling.”
Appa looked at the guava.
“Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Why do you ask this every time?”
“Because you don’t eat properly.”
“I do.”
“Hmm.”
They talked for four minutes.
Five, if you counted the part where neither of them said anything.
Before hanging up, Arjun said,
“Appa?”
“Hmm?”
“Call me sometimes.”
Appa smiled.
“You call me.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“Then nothing.”
They both laughed.
After the call, Appa opened WhatsApp.
There was still the old message in the draft box.
“Call when free.”
He looked at it.
Then he deleted it.
The next evening, he typed something new.
“Guavas are good this year.”
He stared at it.
Then sent it.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
“Send two.”
Appa looked toward the kitchen.
“Amma,” he called, “how many guavas are left?”
“Why?”
He smiled.
“Nothing.”
Read this when you haven’t called someone lately.
If this story stayed with you…
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About the Author
I’m the writer behind The Quiet Things, where I write about love, family, memory, healing, regret and the quiet moments people rarely put into words.
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