There is a story everywhere, if we only care to look around, listen, and learn. This is one such story. The Chair’s story is an allegory of the human condition, the process of aging, and the discarding and destruction of things that once we deemed precious.
THE CHAIR
When I sat
down, the chair creaked as if protesting my weight when I suddenly descended on
it. I couldn’t understand, for this has been happening quite often over the
past few days. I had, in fact, checked it thoroughly for any cracks on its legs
but it seemed in perfect health. Today this worried me, for the sound was
louder as if it was letting out a cry of pain. This was again late into the
night when I sat down to write. I still cannot comprehend why this always happens to me in the middle of the night, whether it
be a conversation with my beard or a conversation with a cat. But this was for
the first time the interaction was with an inanimate object: Or so I thought.
I remember my
wife telling me the other day “why do you cling on to this chair still? It’s so
old and does not gel with the other furniture in the house. For example, that
new writing table and chair you bought last month. The new chair is lying in
one corner of the bedroom and you still continue to sit on this old junk”.
“Don’t call
it junk. You are witness to the fact that I have written all my books sitting
on it. It has been a companion and helped to make my creative juices flow.
Moreover, you said it is old. Yes, it is, that’s what makes it special. It’s
older than my grandfather who got it from his grandfather and now passed on to
me, a legacy. It must be at least more than a hundred years old. It has
withstood the ravages of time and seen many a person perched on its lap from
time to time. You know, my grandmother wanted me to have it, especially since I
was her favorite grandchild. She said that grandfather would have wished the
same. After I got it polished and done up, you used to show off whenever your
friends came home, saying that it is an antique and valuable,” I replied.
“I did so in
the beginning, but slowly as we went about refurbishing the house and redesigning
the interiors, this became an eyesore. One of these days I am going to call the
carpenter and ask him to take it away for whatever price he offers.”
“Don’t ever
do such a thing. You know I already had the carpenter in when I asked him to
look at it and polish it. Of his own volition, he told me ‘Saheb do not ever
throw this chair away. We don’t get such furniture with all this craftsmanship,
nowadays. One more thing Saheb, it is made of Rosewood. People don’t make
furniture with Rosewood now, it is very costly, one of the costliest woods. If
you ask me, it is an antique. You know how people go to auctions trying to get one
of these antique furniture which they can keep in their Living room as an
exhibit. So, take my word, don’t sell it’”
“Ok. It’s
your decision, but don’t blame me if one of these days it gives away and you
find yourself on the ground,” my wife replied.
That was the
end of the conversation. But today when it creaked again, I got up and shook it
to see whether it was indeed in its last throes. What my wife said earlier was
still playing on my mind. So not wanting to take chances I pushed it to one
corner and replaced it with one of those plastic chairs to continue my writing,
but I found that I did not feel secure. It felt strange as if someone who had
been with me for such a long time had suddenly left.
“Don’t worry, I am still here,” the voice emanated from the corner of the room where I had
left the chair.
“Who?” I
asked.
“Who do you
presume will talk to you at this hour of the night! I am your Chair,” he said.
As I
continued staring at him, he continued “You heard right, I did creak. It’s old-age,
I guess. It happens to everyone, even you. I heard you talking to your wife the
other day and what she said about me, that I am of no use now and occupy only
space in the house. Well, I will not deny that I felt hurt, but I am grateful
to you for taking care and refusing to part with me. It proved that you still
value our relationship. But today I noticed an inkling of doubt creep in when I
creaked. I am not sure how long I will be able to continue like this. When I really break down one day, you may utilize my parts whichever way you want. You
know I am still valuable as a deadwood. Till then I hope you continue to treat
me as a revered antique. I don’t mind remaining in this corner”.
I stared at
him. Like I said before, it was nothing strange for me to talk to things, be it
a cat or my beard and now a chair. He must have sensed my discomfiture.
“You only
know me as being handed over to you by your grandmother saying that I was
ancestral property and so valuable. I was an heirloom. But you do not know my
origin. So let me tell you a story.
Two hundred
years ago, I was born in a forest somewhere near a river in South India. At the
time the area was densely forested and a lot of us thrived. My parent was one
of the largest and cast his seeds all around. It was from one of them that I
sprouted and had the first peep into this world. There were many of us and in the
midst stood the parent tree. It was only later that I learned we were called
Rosewood. You know, I belonged to one of the most exclusive species of flora in
the forest. We were hardy, tall with a wide girth and veneer. We were a
privileged lot. I later realized that maybe because of these qualities we were
ruthlessly mowed down to cater to the greedy needs of your species. My saddest
day was when I watched my parent who was already a hundred years old cut down
and transported away from the forest. That was to be the fate of all my
siblings as one by one vanished. I was perhaps one of the last to go. I was
fifty years old, stood tall, and had all the inklings of a fine specimen when
they came and cut me down. I heard them talking among themselves that I would
fetch a good price.
Thus ended
one phase of my life. I was forced to leave my roots behind and s taken far
away from the forest and kept in one of the warehouses where I found many of
our kind already lodged there. Of course, not all of them were Rosewood, there
were others. Only then I realized that I was special and kept separately along
with other royalty. To cut the story short, each day some would disappear and
others brought in. Then one day I overheard two men talking. The gist of which
was that the king of that province wanted new furniture made out of the finest
Rosewood available. Soon I was picked up and taken away to a carpenter’s shop
and there began the painful process of splitting me into different sizes, then
sawing and cutting me into different shapes to suit their needs. What was whole
was split into parts, but I survived by whatever name they gave me – Chair, Cabinet,
Table, Bed, or other furniture as per their needs, my soul however is still intact and I
am still Rosewood. Now you own one of my many avatars as a Chair. My other parts
in whichever form I exist I believe are still around somewhere occupying pride
of place and now maybe suffering the same fate as mine.
I was a part
of the furniture in the King’s palace. You should feel privileged that you have
for so long sat where once the King sat. When the palace furniture was replaced,
I was given away and picked up by one of your ancestors, maybe around a
hundred years ago. Ever since I have been with your family and occupied pride
of place. Though I now find misgivings about my place in the changed scenario.
If now some
of us have survived still as a tree, it is because now it is illegal to cut us
down. We are an endangered species. But human greed does not stop. But I have
to tell you that Karma has its own way of paying back and that’s what is
happening now. Unless all that talk of protecting forests, Flora, and Fauna is
taken seriously, I foresee difficult times ahead.
Sorry for rambling
on for such a long time. And it all started just because I creaked. I know it’s
now time for you to go to sleep. But before I also sign off for the night, I
should confess that I am quite comfortable where I am now, but I know things
will not remain as such and one day I shall have to leave. Maybe I shall take a
new form or be consigned to the flames. Good night.”
I did not go
to sleep for a long time after that. The Chair had touched a chord deep inside
me. Whether as a royal Rosewood or an ordinary tree that one finds strewn all over the roadside the process is the same. Only how privileged you are, differs. I have also lived my many
avatars – son, brother, husband, father, grandfather and now as an antique I know
I am precious. But at the root of all, I am still ‘I’.
There is a story everywhere if we only care to look around and listen and learn.
The painting reproduced here is
Van Gogh’s Chair (1888) by Vincent van Gogh. National Gallery, London. Source Wikimedia Commons
