“Which day are you coming?” her father asked.

She was standing outside a pharmacy, balancing a packet of medicines and her phone against one shoulder. “Appa, I told you. Sunday.”

“This Sunday?”

“Yes. This Sunday.”

He said okay and ended the call.

On Thursday, he asked again. On Friday, he called to ask whether she was coming by bus or whether her husband would drop her. On Saturday morning, he wanted to know if she would eat at home.

She began to worry. He had always remembered dates. He could tell you which month the roof had been repaired and the exact year they bought the old scooter. Now he misplaced his reading glasses and asked the same thing twice.

When she visited, she checked the tablets in his box and wrote the next appointment on the calendar. He watched her from the dining table.

“You’re coming again next week?” he asked.

“I came this week, Appa.”

“I know.” He folded the corner of the newspaper. “I’m asking about next week.”

She looked at him properly. His hair had grown over his ears. The sleeves of his shirt were buttoned wrong, one cuff folded inside the other. On the table, beside his tea, lay a list of things he wanted her to bring: glucose biscuits, the small bottle of pain balm, a new pen.

Nothing difficult. Nothing he couldn’t ask a neighbour to buy.

“I’ll call you,” she said.

“No need to call. Just come when you can.”

Before leaving, she went to the kitchen to wash her cup. Her father followed and took it from her hand.

“Leave it. I’ll do it.”

She nearly laughed. He had never let anyone else wash his tea cup. He rinsed it slowly, turning it under the tap as if it needed his full attention.

On the bus home, she opened her calendar and moved a work call. She marked the next Sunday with a small blue dot, then the Sunday after that.

When she called him that night, he asked what time she was coming next week.

“After lunch,” she said. “I’ll come after lunch.”

He sounded pleased, but he didn’t say so. He only asked whether she wanted him to keep some curd rice for her.

“Yes, Appa.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll keep it.”

If this story stayed with you…

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