The Empty Plate - When Love Waits Too Long, Even Silence Begins To Speak
One empty chair. One forgotten promise. One unexpected knock.
Story: S A Spencer
Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles
The curry
had gone cold.
Mohan sat
alone at the dining table, staring at the untouched plate across from him.
Steam no longer rose from the bowl of lamb rogan josh he’d simmered for hours,
the scent of cloves and cinnamon now dulled by the evening chill creeping
through the open kitchen window. The roti, wrapped in foil, had gone stiff. The
salad wilted in its bowl. His own plate was half-eaten, but he hadn’t tasted a
thing.
He glanced
at the clock. 7:42 PM.
Sunday
dinner. Like every Sunday for the past three years.
Except his
son hadn’t come.
Again.
Mohan
reached for the glass of water, his fingers brushing the rim before pulling
back. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want anything. The house felt too quiet, too
still, like it was holding its breath. He looked at the empty chair opposite
him — the one he always set with care, the one he never sat in himself.
He’d even
laid out the good cutlery tonight. The ones with the brass handles. His wife
used to polish them every Diwali, saying they made the table look “proper.”
She’d been gone eight years now. Cancer. Quick and cruel.
He’d raised
Arjun alone since Year 10. Worked double shifts at the mechanic’s. Skipped
meals so the boy could have textbooks. Sold his ute to help with uni fees. And
when Arjun landed that job in the city, Mohan had dipped into his retirement
fund to help him buy the flat.
He didn’t
mind. Not then.
But lately,
the visits had dried up. First once a fortnight. Then once a month. Now… three
months since he’d last seen him. And even that had been rushed — Arjun had
popped in for twenty minutes, phone buzzing the whole time, eyes darting to the
clock.
Mohan had
made biryani that day. Arjun hadn’t touched it.
He pushed
back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the tiled floor. The sound
echoed through the house like a reprimand. He stood, walked to the sink, and
began rinsing the plates — his own first, then the untouched one. He hesitated
before tipping the curry into the bin.
It felt
wrong. Like erasing something that hadn’t happened yet.
He wrapped
the roti in cling film and placed it in the fridge. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he’d
eat it himself.
He turned
off the kitchen light and walked into the lounge, the soft creak of his knees
louder than the TV he hadn’t turned on. He sat in his recliner, reached for the
remote, then stopped.
His phone
buzzed.
He snatched
it up, heart thudding.
A message.
From Arjun.
Sorry
Dad. Got caught up. Will call tomorrow.
Mohan stared
at the screen.
No “love
you.” No “miss you.” Just a line. A placeholder.
He typed
back: No worries. Hope you’re well.
Then deleted
it.
Instead, he
typed: I made your favourite tonight. Maybe next Sunday?
He stared at
the words.
Then deleted
those too.
He put the
phone down.
And the
silence returned.
***
Arjun leaned
against the kitchen bench, sipping his beer while Rita scrolled through her
tablet. The apartment was sleek, modern, all glass and chrome. The kind Mohan
had never stepped foot in.
“Inspection’s
at ten tomorrow,” Rita said. “We’ll need to leave early.”
Arjun
nodded, distracted. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it.
A message
from Dad.
No — not a
message. Just his name in the notifications. He hadn’t replied yet.
Rita looked
up. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah. Just
Dad.”
She tilted
her head. “You haven’t seen him in a while, have you?”
Arjun
shrugged. “Been flat out. Work’s mental. And he’s fine. He always is.”
Rita didn’t
say anything.
He opened
the message thread. No new texts. Just the last one he’d sent — Will call
tomorrow.
That had
been two weeks ago.
He frowned.
“I should go
see him,” he said suddenly.
Rita
blinked. “Now?”
“No. Next
weekend. I’ll take him out. Maybe lunch.”
She smiled.
“He’d like that.”
Arjun
nodded, but something gnawed at him. A memory — faint, flickering — of his dad
standing in the driveway, waving as he drove off last time. The man had looked
smaller. Older. Like the years had finally caught up.
He finished
his beer and placed the empty bottle on the counter.
“I’ll call
him tomorrow,” he said.
He always
said that.
***
Mohan woke
early the next morning, the sun barely a smear across the horizon. He shuffled
to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. The house was quiet,
save for the hum of the fridge and the distant chirp of magpies.
He opened
the pantry, pulled out the tea tin, and spooned leaves into the strainer. The
scent of cardamom rose, familiar and comforting. He poured the water, watched
the steam curl, then carried the cup to the dining table.
He sat in
his usual spot.
The chair
opposite remained empty.
He sipped
slowly, the warmth spreading through his chest. He didn’t expect a call today.
Or a visit. But he’d made peace with that. Sort of.
He reached
for the newspaper, flipping through the pages without reading. His eyes drifted
to the photo on the sideboard — Arjun in his graduation robes, Mohan beside
him, beaming. That day had felt like a victory. Like everything had been worth
it.
He missed
that feeling.
The phone
rang.
He froze.
Then reached
for it.
Arjun.
He answered,
voice steady. “Hello?”
“Hey Dad.
Sorry I didn’t call yesterday.”
Mohan
smiled. “No worries, beta.”
“I was
thinking… maybe I could come over next Sunday?”
Mohan’s
heart skipped. “That’d be nice.”
“I’ll bring Rita.
We’ll do lunch.”
Mohan
nodded, even though Arjun couldn’t see. “I’ll make lamb rogan josh.”
Arjun
laughed. “Perfect.”
They chatted
a bit more — work, weather, cricket — then hung up.
Mohan sat
back, the phone warm in his hand.
He looked at
the empty plate still sitting in the sink.
And smiled.
But the
smile didn’t last.
Because deep
down, he knew — next Sunday might come.
Or it might
not.
And the
plate would wait.
Again.
***
Mohan stood
at the stove, stirring the pot with slow, deliberate movements. The lamb rogan
josh bubbled gently, its rich aroma filling the kitchen — cloves, cinnamon,
garlic, and the faint sweetness of caramelised onion. He tasted a spoonful,
nodded to himself, and turned off the flame.
It was
Sunday.
He set the
table with care: brass-handled cutlery, the good plates, a folded napkin beside
each one. He placed the naan in a basket lined with a tea towel, added a small
bowl of cucumber raita, and poured water into two glasses.
Then he sat.
And waited.
The clock
ticked past seven.
Then eight.
The food
cooled. The steam faded. The chair opposite him remained empty.
He didn’t
eat. Not yet.
He just
stared at the plate.
***
Arjun parked
his car outside the old brick house, engine ticking as it cooled. The porch
light was on. The curtains drawn. He felt a twist in his gut — guilt, maybe, or
something heavier.
He hadn’t
told Dad he was coming.
He wanted it
to be a surprise.
He stepped
out, walked up the path, and knocked.
No answer.
He knocked
again, louder.
“Mum used to
say three knocks was polite,” he murmured to himself.
Still
nothing.
He tried the
door. It was unlocked.
He stepped
inside.
The scent
hit him first — warm spices, slow-cooked meat, toasted cumin. His stomach
growled. He hadn’t eaten all day.
“Dad?”
Silence.
Then a soft
creak.
He turned
toward the kitchen.
And saw him.
Mohan sat at
the table, eyes closed, hands folded in his lap. The food was untouched. The
room was dim, lit only by the overhead light and the soft glow of the stove
clock.
Arjun
stepped in, heart thudding.
“Dad?”
Mohan opened
his eyes slowly.
Arjun
swallowed. “I… I didn’t call. I should’ve. I’m sorry.”
Mohan
nodded, expression unreadable. “You came.”
“I wanted to
surprise you.”
“You did.”
Arjun looked
at the table. “You cooked.”
“I always
do.”
Arjun sat
down, suddenly unsure of himself. “I’ve been… busy.”
Mohan didn’t
respond.
Arjun
reached for the naan, tore a piece, dipped it into the curry, and took a bite.
His eyes widened.
“This is
amazing.”
Mohan smiled
faintly. “It’s your favourite.”
Arjun looked
at the plate across from him. “You set the table for me.”
“I always
do.”
Arjun’s
throat tightened. “Even when I don’t come?”
Mohan
nodded.
Arjun stared
at the plate. “I’m sorry.”
Mohan looked
at him, eyes soft. “I know.”
They ate in
silence for a while, the clink of cutlery the only sound.
Then Arjun
said, “I want to come more often. Every Sunday. If that’s alright.”
Mohan’s hand
paused mid-air.
He looked at
his son.
And nodded.
Later, after
the dishes were done and the leftovers packed away, they sat in the lounge,
sipping tea. The room felt warmer. Softer.
Arjun leaned
back. “I’ve been thinking… maybe we could do lunch at mine next week. Rita
wants to meet you properly.”
Mohan raised
an eyebrow. “She’s lovely.”
“She is.”
Mohan sipped
his tea. “I’d like that.”
Arjun
hesitated. “I’ve been a bit of a selfish git, haven’t I?”
Mohan
chuckled. “You’re young. Life moves fast.”
“But I don’t
want to miss this. Us.”
Mohan looked
at him, eyes glinting. “Then don’t.”
Arjun
nodded.
They sat in
silence, the kind that felt full rather than empty.
Outside, the
wind rustled the gum trees.
Inside, the
plate was no longer waiting.
It had been
filled.
And so had
something else.
Something
long overdue.
✍️ Author’s Note
Thank you for reading The Empty Plate. If this story resonated with you, please like, share, comment, and subscribe to support the blog. Your engagement helps these stories reach more hearts, and I’d love to hear your thoughts or your own experiences in the comments. Your voice keeps this community alive.
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