The Fourth Seat

The clock would read after 9:30 pm. Some chatter would be going on the television. A Friday special movie, it could have been I don’t know. I must have been 8 or maybe 9. It was a routine which I was used to. No sign of my father anywhere. He would normally arrive by 7 when he worked in the Headoffice, earlier if he was nearby. But on certain days, on those days, when my mother would prepare fish or eggs for dinner, he would come later than his usual hour. After an evening out with the boys, as if it were. He would arrive post 9, sometimes around 10. That is how life was back then.  But I waited in anticipation when he would be delayed. He would not come empty handed. He would carry home a parcel. A parcel is what we now call a takeaway. A tandoori chicken - half or sometimes nothing but a Calcutta paan with a cherry in the middle, which we would refrigerate and savour after dinner. We would often wait for him to arrive, even though we knew he would have had something at the bar. But h