After retirement, he sat in the chair beside the window every morning at 9.

At first, he thought he was waiting for something.

He wasn’t.

The newspaper arrived at 8:15. Tea arrived at 8:30. By 9, there was nowhere else he needed to be.

So he sat.

The first person to notice was the milkman.

“Retired?”

He nodded.

“Lucky.”

He wasn’t sure.

The next week, the upstairs neighbour began stopping for two minutes.

Then the newspaper boy.

Then the woman who sold flowers near the corner.

People began telling him things.

The plumber’s daughter had got married.

The shopkeeper’s knee was hurting.

The milkman’s son had finally passed his exam.

He listened.

He remembered.

By winter, people had stopped asking whether he was free.

They simply knocked.

One morning his daughter came home early.

She found him in the chair, laughing with the vegetable vendor.

After the vendor left, she asked, “Appa, don’t you get bored?”

He looked at the chair.

“Not really.”

She smiled.

“You have become the neighbourhood office.”

He laughed.

“No fees.”

“Good.”

She sat beside him.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then someone knocked.

He looked at her.

“See?”

She got up to open the door.

“Office hours?” she asked.

He checked the clock.

“Nine to eleven.”

Read this when a quiet season of life turns out to have its own kind of crowd.