It is a small room. Dark, dusty, scanty almost dingy. My friends here told me they call it a warehouse. Ask a broken 4 legged, almost three! Immobile…it will say- I don’t care. I really do not. I’d lived on the same spot, crowded by dear spiders for years. Warehouse, your house, my house no matter what you called it. Nothing changed for me. The only thing I care about is my fate. Let’s talk about my fate. From the Mahagony of Assam, I was shipped carefully to this furniture outlet in Capital Delhi. Assembled, carved, price tagged all in this chattel of best handmade furniture. I used to occupy the third spot on the first floor from the left. Glistening with aromatic oil. Laden with an expensive leather seat. Touched by the best of bureaucrats of the city. Tried by every hopping kid in the shop. I must have rocked as a chair. So I had my time, my best time there. Slowly my friends out there who gave me company in the hustle bustle of noon in the store and the peaceful moonlit nights started bidding adieu. The recliner buddy who never really relaxed, lavish Sofa set on my right both were replaced with an Almirah and a dining table respectively. I never had any issues making new friends I’m telling you. This Almirah was huge and classy but not grumpy so to say. The real issue was, my friends were being bought- I was not! The realisation came late but it sure gave me those late-night chills. It was all hitting me back, they were sitting on me, trying me out but not eventually taking the bills out for me. I was losing out on confidence with every passing day. My restlessness grew out of my anxiety. I was having slivers coming out of my body. I was sweating the oil out of my joints. Someone take me! Someone take me out of this hell.. My heart screeched out to my owner to put me in front, lower whatever this number on my tag signifies. Do whatever it takes to get me an occupant. This is not over reaction. Let me tell you the chair psychology. We understand the meaning and feel of permanence. The state of being owned and occupied. The idea of being seated upon. We, especially me, I enjoy the warmth of human touch more than anything. It has an inexplicable caress of faith and trust. Something that says I sat on you because I believe in you.. How much the person who’s sitting on it, means to it. From the fervent rest of your arm to the overcoat with which you’ll cover us at times. From the nudge on the left to make space on the right to that cute little toppling I’m sure to get by one of your kids..Oh it makes me blush! We don’t like to stay unsold let alone be abandoned. In my case, the summoning was going to happen anyways. It was the judgment day. No buyer, no taker so in the furniture business, I was no more a furniture! Piece of logs attached together, with some etchings which meant nothing. 2 years of experience of standing there, unsold.i was really out of job. The last thing I can tell about the outside world was they were really harsh to me. Rude in fact, from the showroom to the warehouse ride I really
juggled in that truck. I almost wept to the fact that when I was first bought, cardboard wrapping, thermocol cushioning and what not to assist my safe arrival. Clearly, I was not the same “fragile, handle with care” anymore. they mercilessly threw me on a heap of cartons in the corner of the room. I was not alone I slowly recognised. I had a few other inmates too. Abandoned, alone, unoccupied simply rejected. An orphan I am, tip toeing for my adoptee with every passing second. Someone will open that door, look for an old throne. I’m waiting for my majesty to take his mighty place. Well, in this time of despondency, I wondered if anyone remembered me. By the way it’s no one’s fault, I was never really sat-on to say that line honestly. Before putting myself back to sleep for another hopeless night, I have a complaint. To whomsoever it may concern. A chair is meant to show its share of responsibility as soon as its owner sits on it. For that, I needed an owner, my occupant. my chairperson. Never had one.
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