“I don't know what he meant when he said, ‘Keep the window open.’”
My grandfather said those words often.
Whenever I visited him during my school holidays, I would find him in his study, sitting beside the large window. It was the brightest spot in the room and his favorite place during winter, when the afternoon sun warmed the wooden floor. But during the windy monsoon days, it was the coldest corner of the house. He never liked curtains on that window.
His old wooden rocking chair sat beside it, with a soft cotton cushion that had taken the shape of his back over the years. A short carpet lay beneath his feet to keep them warm on chilly mornings.
From there, he could watch people pass by on the road. Sometimes, he would have a one-sided conversation with the neighborhood cat that lazed on the compound wall. On other days, he would fill the little birdbath with water and scatter a few grains beside it. Every now and then, a few sparrows would land on the window rail, stay for a while, and fly away.
It was his favorite place in the house.
“Why don't you close it when it gets windy?” I once asked.
He looked at me over his glasses.
“Because a closed window keeps everything out.”
I thought he was talking about fresh air.
I was twelve then. I didn't think much about what he said.
Years passed.
I grew up, moved to another city, got a job, and became busy with my own life. My visits to my grandparents became less frequent. Phone calls replaced long afternoons at their house.
Grandfather never complained.
Whenever I called, he would ask about my work, my friends, and whether I was eating properly.
Then one summer, I had a silly argument with Anu, my closest friend since school. We had grown up together, shared secrets, celebrated birthdays, and stayed in touch even after I moved to another city.
The argument was over something so small that I can't remember what it was now. What I remember is that neither of us wanted to be the first to say sorry. A few days later, Anu called. I saw her name on my phone but let the call go unanswered. I thought about calling her back that evening. I didn't. A week later, I typed a message, read it twice, and deleted it. Neither of us called again. I told myself that if she really cared, she would call again. She didn't.
Around the same time, Grandfather called one evening. We hadn't spoken in a few weeks, so I was happy to hear his voice.
“When are you coming home?”
“Soon,” I said.
“You've been saying that for months.”
I laughed. “I'll come next month. I have a few days off for Diwali.”
“Good. I'll hold you to that.”
We spoke about a few things after that. He asked about my work, reminded me to take care of myself, and told me about the new plants he had put in the backyard.
Just before we ended the call, he said, “And keep the window open.”
I laughed.
“You still say that?”
“Always.”
I didn't ask what he meant. I had heard him say it so many times that I had stopped wondering about it.
A few months later, Grandfather passed away.
After the funeral, I stood outside his study for a long time. I had walked past that door several times, but I couldn't bring myself to go in. It felt strange to think that he would never be sitting in that rocking chair again, calling me over to show me something he had found in the newspaper.
Finally, I placed my hand on the doorknob and turned it. I pushed the door open slowly.
Everything inside looked just as I remembered it. His books were still arranged on the shelves, their spines worn from years of use. His reading glasses rested on the desk beside the newspaper he had been reading that morning. His wooden rocking chair stood beside the window, the cotton cushion still holding its familiar shape, with the little carpet beneath it. For a moment, the room felt as though he had only stepped away and would return any minute.
But the window was closed. I walked over and opened it. The room filled with a gentle breeze that carried the fragrance of the roses in full bloom outside. I stood there for a moment, taking in the familiar scent and looking out at the road where Grandfather had spent so many hours watching people pass by.
I curled up in his rocking chair for a while, running my fingers over the worn cotton cushion. I remembered the many afternoons he had spent there, reading the newspaper, watching people pass by, or simply sitting quietly with his tea.
Then I noticed that the drawer of the small table opposite the chair was slightly open. I pulled it out and found a small envelope tucked beneath his diary. My name was written on it in his familiar handwriting.
I held the envelope in my hands for a moment. Somehow, I knew there was something inside that I wasn't quite ready to read.
Reluctantly, I opened it.
My dear Maya,
You once asked me why I always kept this window open. I gave you an answer, but I never told you the whole story.
When I was young, your grand-uncle and I had a terrible argument. Neither of us was willing to apologize. I waited for him to come to me, and he waited for me to go to him. We let our pride get in the way. One year became five. Five became ten. Before we knew it, twenty years had passed.
When we finally met again to put away our differences, we were happy to see each other, but we couldn't get back those twenty years.
I often wondered what might have happened if one of us had simply taken the first step.
That is why I keep this window open. Not just for the breeze or the birds. It reminds me to leave a little space for people. People will disappoint us. We will disappoint them too. That's part of being human. But don't let one argument, one mistake, or one hurt make you close the door on someone who matters.
If you ever find yourself waiting for someone to make the first move, remember what happened to me and your grand-uncle. Sometimes, all it takes is one person to open the window.
So, keep yours open.
With love,
Appapa
I read the letter twice. Then I thought of Anu and our silly argument. I took out my phone and stared at her name for a few seconds before calling.
She answered almost immediately.
“I was going to call you. I heard about Appappa,” she said.
“I was going to call you too.”
There was a pause.
“Why didn't you?”
I smiled. “I don't know.”
She laughed softly. “Me neither.”
We talked for almost an hour. By the end of the call, our argument seemed too small to hold on to.
A week later, Anu came to visit me at my ancestral home. We sat in the study with our tea, in Grandfather's favorite place.
“I like this window,” she said.
I smiled. “Grandfather always said to keep the windows open.”
“Why?”
I looked out at the road and thought of him.
“You never know who might come through.”
Anu smiled.
I smiled too. Now I understood why this had always been Grandfather's favorite place.
