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
The chair must feel lonely nowadays..
Just like him..