The Other Chair at the Corner Table

The paracetamol goes down with the last of your chai at 7:45 AM. The world sharpens into a manageable ache. You get to Starbucks at your usual time, claim your corner table by the window, and open your laptop. The first call is at nine. Your voice is a gravelly instrument, and you mute yourself to cough twice into your elbow. You drink four glasses of water before noon, one after the other.

By two, the caffeine and medicine have formed a brittle alliance. You finish a task three hours early. You decide to clear your personal inbox because you can’t stop scrolling. You find an unread email from three months prior, from the building secretary of your apartment complex. It’s a forwarded complaint about water seepage in B-wing, asking for resident input. You’d missed it. You type a reply describing the specific, damp patch behind your washing machine. You attach a photo from your phone you’d taken to show your mother.

The repairman comes on Friday. His name is Suryakant, and he smells of cement dust and Lifebuoy soap. He finds a cracked pipe in the communal line. He fixes yours, and then, because he’s already there with the sealant, he checks the apartments on either side. Mrs. Iyer in 4B has the same hairline crack starting. He patches it before it bursts.

You don’t think about it again until the October rains, when a message pops up in the building’s WhatsApp group. Mr. Kapoor in 3A is reporting a flood. The chat fills with sympathy and advice. Mrs. Iyer posts a single line: “Thank God for small mercies. Our wall is still dry.” She tags you. You’re not sure why.

You see her in the lift the next morning, carrying a tiffin box. She nods at you, a firm, acknowledging dip of the chin. She gets off on the fourth floor. The doors close. You ride the rest of the way down alone, tasting the faint, metallic ghost of paracetamol on your tongue.