The chair

 The old wooden door opened to a dusty bedroom. Decorated with spider webs and dusty furniture, the room gave a hint of being untouched for ages. The white paint of the walls had vanished to give them a tarnished yellow colour. Black dust patches dotted the room at various places. The curtains still hung from the hooks trying not to allow the sunlight from peeping inside. Though, they failed in their attempt as the tatters they had, welcomed thin rays of bright sunshine. As I peeped out of the window, the tall deciduous trees smiled at me in recognition. I scanned the room with my tearful nostalgic eyes. I felt as if the furniture had begun to converse with me.

'Aren't you the little clad who used to roam around in this mansion spreading happiness?', the metal cupboard with a broken door said. I smiled at its last two words. I nodded in response. 

'Where were you these years?', questioned the bed. It looked naked without any bedsheet.

'Didn't you feel like to come here and reminisce your past? After all this is from where your career began', joined the filthy table. It was stained with ink all over. 

'No it isn't like that', I said sounding guilty.

I moved back a step and trembled over a large thing. I turned around to see what it was. My eyes deviated to see the dust stuck on my saree rather than noticing what had made me about to fall. A puff of dust blew in air as I attempted to clean my clothing. Why hadn't I noticed this earlier - the chair?

I slid my palm on the back of the chair. I felt that the then soft leather had now turned rough. It had lost its charm but still seemed the most important thing in that room. A glint of happiness flashed on my face as I smiled to my memories. 

The physically 63 year old me suddenly turned into a mentally 14 year old in just a few nanoseconds. It was a usual afternoon, half a century ago, and I was running hither and thither down the stairs when...

'What are you troubling me for? I have to study for my 12th std boards. Please either sit quietly in the bedroom or sleep', scolded my brother as he got irritated by my not-so-irritating activity. I climbed up the stairs and came into the then peaceful room. I sat on the chair with a huge force. I noticed a paper and pen lying beside me on the table. I started scribbling when I unknowingly wrote these words : 

'I get so bored all alone

I wonder why there's no one to play

So I roam and run and scream around

In a happy but irritating way'

'Well, what's this? Have I written this? That means I can do this too!', I thought to myself. I shared it with my parents and they appreciated me too. Every afternoon from that day onwards I used to sit on that chair and express myself. If at anytime, I needed opinions for my writing, I used to ask my chair. Assuming that the chair has replied, I used to write whatever would please me.

Years passed by. Now, I had grown up into a 30 year old writer. I had written 10 books till now. A few of them had become the bestsellers and a few others even went unnoticed by the readers. But every single book and every single word from each book was written on the same yellow coloured leather chair. It had seen the peaks of my career and also the times when I cried to my fullest for not giving my best. When I had suffered through my writing block, I used to spend every day sitting on the chair in the hope of writing something and end up looking listlessly at the paper all night long. I used to reply to my fans sitting on that chair. It made me feel so great. Divine pleasure. Yes just that.

A gust of wind brought me back to the present. I was standing beside the chair holding it with one hand and wiping tears with the other. I cleaned the chair as I noticed a couple of salty tears on its back. Even now, after writing more than forty books and twenty bestsellers, having millions of fans, gaining several experiences through writing books and becoming a successful expressor, I felt guilty. None of the luxurious items in my new posh home resembled this chair. 

I called my secretary in. He uncomfortably made his way through the heeps of fallen plasters and wooden shavings.

'Yes madam', he said as he reached out to me. 

'Please do me a favour. Ask the servant to clean this chair, repair it and place it in the bedroom of my new home', I said.

'Sorry to interfere madam, but we will get a similar chair in the market with nice posh look. Why to take this old broken thing home?'

I smiled at him.

'Because some things in life cannot be resembled by riches. They are spectacular on their own.'

I felt the greatest satisfaction as I walked out of the room.

Disha