Sunday, April 4, 2010

Man and The Chair

Sitting in the verandah,Old Baba's chair.

wearing a forlorn look,

Its been tewnty two months and seventeen days

since anybody has kept twisted and pen marked Telegraph on it

and neither does anyone hum slow soothing rabindra sangeet tunes to it,

even its handles are cleansed of the tea marks,

It just sits their as if a recluse

and keeps on gazing at the veranda,

As if it still waits for someone to comeback.


somedays while he is passing through the hallway.

He steals a furtive glance at the old chair kept their

and he paces up fast

as if to run from something,

something he can never run from though.

The chair almost always stays on his mind

like Chekhovs-through the looking glass

or the beatles

or like its owner his baba.


How he used to look at the June Calcutta rains

through the balcony sitting on the old historical rocking chair ,

he used to call it the Marx chair

as the chair almost always had a version of "Proletarian Era" neatly folded

and The Telegraph crumpled like an illegitimate

the chair is still there

but like an unwanted guest, rather a feared guest,

He does not want to think of it, But knows

It is sitting besides the shelf

containg all the volumes of stories and poems

of Chekhov and Keats

a passion he shared with Baba.


Resideing lonely looking towards the balcony, it waits,

Just like he waited for him even after two months had passed since his funeral

for Baapi to be back with a bag of Illish and an office bag

The chair too waits for someone who talked to it,

of Lenin's and Basu's and Pele's and Gavaskar's

It waits for the telegraph to still be kept at its handle

with a cup of black tea with one fourth of lemon.

It waits for someone to sit again

and hum slowly "Purano Shei Diner Kotha" to it

and then in the alternate moment to be told

My son is turning into a money eating capitalist.



So many afternoons he had sat on it

Baba's lap listening to his stories and poems

And then after a few years reading Ayn Rand on his own

detested by baba, the chair still let him read it.

and now he was afraid of it.

what if it asked him where was he,

Where was its best friend and his baba,

Of how he went suddenly

just a week before Durga puja's

he could still figure all the seven and half wrinkles on that face.

While he was crying, through his tears

Dying of an attack.


The chair still must bear a few old signs

one or two hairs ,snow flake white

or the circle carved by the cup which kept tea,

a protective lap, or hope, or keats

Perhaps baba



The chair must feel lonely nowadays..

Just like him..

2 comments:

Richa said...

Beautiful.. You really can't say you're going though a block! Loved it! Excellent portrayal of the things missed..

Sidra said...

Beautiful, Buddy. Loved the way you have captured your thoughts :)