For eleven years, Mrs. Rao had knocked on Meena’s door whenever she ran out of something.

“One spoon sugar.”

“Two green chillies.”

“Do you have a little tamarind?”

Sometimes she came for coriander and left with a conversation.

Sometimes she came for a matchbox and stayed for forty minutes.

They had watched each other’s children grow up through the apartment windows.

They knew which husbands forgot birthdays and which sons never remembered to call.

Then, one month, Mrs. Rao stopped knocking.

At first Meena didn’t notice.

Then she noticed everything.

The corridor was quieter.

No voice saying, “Meena!” before the doorbell had even rung.

One afternoon, Meena saw her carrying a full packet of sugar upstairs.

She stopped at the landing.

“You bought sugar?”

Mrs. Rao smiled.

“Yes.”

“Big packet.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Everything okay?” Meena asked.

Mrs. Rao looked at the packet.

“My daughter told me I was troubling you too much.”

“What?”

“She said I should stop asking neighbours for things.”

Meena laughed.

“You were borrowing sugar, not my house.”

Mrs. Rao laughed too.

But after that, she still didn’t come.

Weeks passed.

Meena began making too much tea.

She would put two cups on the tray and then remember there was only one person sitting in the kitchen.

One Sunday, she made a plate of pakoras.

She stood outside Mrs. Rao’s door for a full minute before knocking.

“What?” came the voice from inside.

“I made too many.”

The door opened.

Mrs. Rao looked at the plate.

“You made too many?”

“Yes.”

“Again?”

Meena smiled.

“Again.”

Mrs. Rao took the plate.

“Come in.”

“I have work.”

“Then sit for five minutes.”

Meena sat.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Rao said,

“Actually, I need coriander.”

Meena looked at her.

“There she is.”

Mrs. Rao laughed.

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.

Meet the author →