Every evening at exactly eight, the Mehta family gathered around their grand mahogany dining table — a piece of furniture that had once been the heart of their home. Years ago, this table had been filled with laughter, clinking dishes, and the comforting hum of family chatter. But lately, it mostly echoed with silence.
Riya, the seventeen-year-old daughter, sat hunched over her phone, fingers flying across the screen as she replied to messages and scrolled through endless posts. Her father, Rajesh, was glued to his office laptop, occasionally lifting his eyes only to grab another bite before returning to his presentation. Her mother, Sunita, had her tablet propped against the salt shaker, watching recipe reels and murmuring, “Just one more.”
They were together — yet completely apart.
Only Dadi, the grandmother, noticed the emptiness that hung in the air. At seventy, she had seen a world where people spoke face-to-face, where mealtime meant conversation, not content. She served food quietly, her wrinkled hands steady, her heart heavy. She remembered when her son and daughter-in-law would argue playfully over who made the better tea. Now, they barely looked at each other.
One evening, as rain poured outside and thunder rumbled, the inevitable happened — the electricity went out. The house fell into complete darkness. The Wi-Fi router blinked twice before surrendering.
“Oh no!” Riya exclaimed. “My phone died!”
Rajesh frowned. “I was in a meeting! This is terrible.”
Sunita sighed. “How will I finish the new recipe video?”
Dadi, on the other hand, smiled gently. The darkness didn’t scare her; it comforted her. “Maybe,” she said softly, “this is a good time to talk. The world outside can wait for a while.”
No one answered at first. The silence was thick. Then Dadi lit a small candle and placed it in the center of the table. The flickering flame painted their faces in warm shades of orange and gold.
“So,” she began, breaking the silence, “Riya, how’s school treating you?”
Riya hesitated. “It’s fine… I guess. But it’s boring. Everything feels so repetitive.”
Dadi smiled. “When I was your age, boring days were a blessing. They gave us time to dream.”
Sunita chuckled for the first time in weeks. “And you didn’t even have phones back then, Ma.”
“No,” Dadi said with a twinkle in her eyes, “we had people. That was enough.”
Gradually, the conversation grew. Riya confessed she wanted to study art — something she had never told anyone because no one had ever asked. Rajesh opened up about how stressful his job had become, how every ping of his email felt like a burden. Sunita admitted that she missed the times when weekends meant cooking together and laughing, not scrolling endlessly through social media.
They laughed at old memories, at Riya’s childhood stories, at Rajesh’s cooking disasters. The candlelight seemed to carry warmth straight into their hearts.
When the lights finally returned, no one rushed to their devices. The glow of the candle felt more comforting than the cold light of screens.
From that night on, Dadi placed a small wooden box on the table before every meal. A handwritten note on it read:
“Phones rest here during dinner. So do our minds.”
At first, it was awkward. The silence returned — but this time, it wasn’t empty. Slowly, laughter replaced notifications. Eye contact replaced emojis. Riya began sketching again, Rajesh came home earlier, and Sunita started writing down her own recipes instead of copying others online.
One evening, when Riya’s friend called during dinner, she smiled and said, “I’ll call you later — it’s family time.”
Dadi’s eyes glistened. “Maybe,” she whispered to herself, “the world still has hope.”
That night, the Mehta dining table came alive again — not with screens, but with stories, laughter, and love.
