In the city of Anandpur, there was a café near the lake that had yellow lights and a window table that everyone seemed to want.

Except that Table Seven never needed booking.

Because every Saturday evening at six-thirty, it belonged to Aarav and his father.

Everyone at home knew the rule.

No meetings.

No guests.

No excuses.

When Aarav was eight, his father Kunalbhai had started it.

At first, it was simple.

One chai for father.

One cold coffee for the son.

Thirty minutes together.

That was all.

Years passed.

Thirty minutes became one hour.

School changed.

Shoes became bigger.

Voices became deeper.

Cold coffee glasses became taller.

But Table Seven stayed Table Seven.

Even the café staff knew them.

The waiter usually smiled before reaching the table.

“One masala chai. One cold coffee.”

Kunalbhai would nod.

“Correct.”

Then he would ask Aarav the same question every week.

“So? Tell me one thing I missed.”

Not, “How were your marks?”

Not, “Finished homework?”

Always:

“Tell me one thing I missed.”

And Aarav would begin.

A fight during football.

A joke from school.

A teacher who spoke funny English.

A friend with a new haircut that looked like a coconut.

Everything.

Absolutely everything.

One Saturday, Aarav arrived late after cricket practice.

His friends were nearby, eating sandwiches.

One of them laughed.

“You still go on father dates?”

Everyone grinned.

Aarav laughed too.

“Yes.”

“Oho.”

“Still drinks cold coffee with Papa.”

More laughter.

Normally, Aarav had answers for everything.

This time, he just smiled.

Then he walked into the café.

Table Seven.

Near the window.

His father was already there.

Same watch.

Same smile.

Same chai.

Outside, evening traffic moved slowly.

Scooters.

School buses.

Streetlights are waking up.

Kunalbhai looked up.

“So.”

Aarav sat down.

“So.”

His father smiled.

“Tell me one thing I missed.”

For some reason, Aarav didn’t answer immediately.

He looked around.

At the yellow lights.

At the glass window.

At the chair his father always chose.

The cold coffee arrived exactly without ordering.

Then he smiled.

“You know what is strange?”

“What?”

Aarav leaned back.

“I used to think every father had a Table Seven.”

Silence.

Then a small laugh escaped Kunalbhai.

Aarav continued.

“When I was little, I thought this was normal.”

He looked at his father.

“Then I grew up.”

Outside, someone honked loudly.

Inside, cups touched plates.

Life moved.

Aarav looked at the table and smiled.

“No matter how busy life gets…you always show up.”

Kunalbhai stared at him for a moment.

Then he pushed the cold coffee closer.

“Drink before the ice cream melts.”

That was his style.

Years later, Aarav would forget many things.

Exam marks.

School schedules.

Random afternoons.

But every time he saw cold coffee foam touching the top of a glass, one picture returned first.

Yellow lights.

Table Seven.

And a father who never forgot Saturday.