THE CHAIR

 

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