The Chair

As I sit on this chair I sense a strange relief surging through my not so weary bones. A homecoming of sorts.The fulfilment of a long sought after dream that I had seen as a child and grown up with. To own my own rocking chair. A lot of chairs came and went but the dream remained. A comfy rocker, a good book and a throw over the legs in the cold weather for the central character- an endless number of English classics mentions this scene and for a book worm what better than making reality out of those stories? Even in the smallest of the ways.

My eyes closed, I feel my back sinking even as the chair rocks me into myriad thoughts. A small prayer to God (for making this possible - lack of space/finance and a constant moving from one place to other had contributed to this being a dream till date). A big thanks to my hubby for turning dreams into reality (that what the actual life "Prince of dreams" is supposed to do instead of slaying demons and kissing damsels in distress). I open my eyes and try to focus on the book in the lap...but no the joy of having the chair is too much. I close my eyes again and travel through all those times when I had stood before a rocker admiring it, wishing so fervently that it should be mine......

Then suddenly...another chair comes in my thoughts. An ugly big wooden chair with armrests. Once upon a time when I must have been small or maybe just born it must have been a beauty....regal, almost fit for a king. It was sturdy and heavy but time had taken its toll. In the time line when it appears in my life and memory...it was no longer in active use...instead had been kept in one corner of the bedroom to be used rarely...when there were too many guests in the house all at one time, as a "ladder" when mummy needed something from the shelves high about the ground so on and so forth. I do not even remember when my love affair started with the chair. I do remember thinking that the chair was too big and ugly...3 people my size (when I was a kid - not now!!) could easily fit into it. Maybe someday when left with no other place to sit I sat on it and lost in the book...had put my feet on one of the arm rest, my back against the other armrest, my neck slightly bent on the backrest, sideways and viola that was it....It felt so comfortable and homely that it became my favourite place and position - to sit, to read, to sleep or to stare into space, to cry and to laugh. For an onlooker it must have seemed that the chair (or the huge ugly monster?) is carrying me (the princess) in its giant arms - some things are better experienced than seen.Till the time I left home....it became "my chair"...thereby reducing much of the other odd jobs that it served for. No one objected even as I painted the armrests with my ware colours or drew silly faces on to them, with my pencils. Maths calculations/rough work was often conducted there as well as was wood carving lessons in which I was the teacher and the student..both. The chair became my best friend, my closest companion bearing the brunt of all my moods without a single word. It held me sturdy...comforting me endlessly. Forever.

All good things come to an end. So did the stint with the chair. By this time it had grown really really old and was almost shaky. Even termites had started invading it. It was given away to someone who needed it much more (for sitting or for fire wood....I am not sure). I did not even get time to say goodbye to it...was away to hostel. Anger hit me when I found the chair gone on my next visit home but it seemed foolish to cry over a piece of furniture, when there were other places and chairs to sit......But then I always missed it and no home seemed complete without my big ugly chair.

Until today. I jolt back to the present and the rocker is still rocking me...a nice beautiful rocker that is going to complete this family. I smile at what the future holds....me on the rocker with popcorn watching TV, me and the yet-to-come-baby rocking to sleep as the wind howls outside, me reading aloud the same stories to my kids that once enchanted me....And then he comes and kisses me, lightly on the cheek, interrupting the sequence of the dreams. My prince o' dreams...asking me to wake up and eat the dinner before I sleep. I look at him and smile...for sometimes the reality and the present is far more beautiful than the past and the future. Oh and yes....our rabbit has already made himself at home underneath the leg rest of the rocker. Complete happiness!!

As I walked through the park it was hard not to notice the slight chill. I was dressed up warmly, but not everyone was prepared for this sudden change in weather. I smiled seeing young couples in a state of perpetual hug to keep out the wind and loners walking faster than usual to be engulfed in warmth. For me, the chill manifested itself in a much different way. Each time the cold air brushed my face it transported me across the seas to my home and all that, that would be happening in India at this time of the year. For the umpteenth time I reminded myself that this was not the time to dwell on the past - I must get back home and write, before Adila's story escapes me. Rather, before the rawness of the emotions cooked themselves into just another statistics. A parent reminding a child of the unfinished homework that needs to be done before play.

At home, I quickly prepared a cup of steaming chai, with lots and lots of adrak and a teaspoon loaded with sugar - just the way I liked it. All those years, outside India had not managed to rub off this habit - rather magnified it into an addiction. I smiled as the words "pure desi" hit me - a term my friends used to tease me whenever I told them that no matter what, I would not return to India, atleast not to live there permanently. It was there way of letting me know that no matter how much I was in love with the peace and quiet of this faraway land my heart was still Indian and someday I was bound to get back (probably in old age) and regret the time spent away from Matrabhumi.

Grabbing a box of cookies I started working on the first draft of Adila's story. How her mom, a Hindu by birth married a Muslim against the wishes of her family. A sip of tea and a bite of the cookie.How despite all the opposition from their respective families they lived blissfully in a small village by the sea in Bengal (now Bangladesh). Another greedy sip and a bigger chunk of cookie, all full of dark brown chocolate. How food was in plenty and despite being poor they managed to be happy, just like they do in fairy tales. My hands reach out to another cookie and my mouth for another sip of tea. How they celebrated Diwali and Eid with equal enthusiasm and.....

And then it strikes me again - but this time with a full force. Memories. Nostalgia. All of a sudden the cookie loses it taste and my ears strain to hear the sound of some faraway, non existent drums - the drums that announce that the Goddess is going for "Visarjan". Of course no sounds are forthcoming. I can feel my nose twitching at the imagined smell of smoke from the holy fire. As if in a daze, I walk to the balcony door and open it, just a wee bit. The cold air strikes immediately but along with it, it brings in the smell of falling leaves, of the retreating sun, of the wind that has lowered its intensity but not what I long to hear, long to feel, long to smell.

Flashback. You can sense the change in the air even without looking outside. As the weather tries to beat out the hard Indian summer in the plains, the coolness creeps in slowly. Initially it leaves just the tip of the fingers a bit cold. The next day you realise that the street lights have come up at an early hour. Still the next evening, you see and smell a neighbour's house being painted all anew. Still another, the sounds of excited children running ahead of their parents to buy sweetmeats. The sound of drums, the smell of the holy fire mingled with that of puri- aaloo- tamatar being cooked for feeding the kanjak, the sight of women draped in all finery heading to the pandal - this was all that my heart desired at the moment. The arrival of the winter seemed incomplete without them.

And yet, silence all around - even as the drums and the crackers do a somersault in my head along with samosa, dahibada and rasgulla. The uncrowded silence I so lovingly cherish about this place suddenly loses its flavour and I want to be back to India amidst all the humdrum and colour of life. Amongst all that traffic sound that even past 10 PM held the capacity to get onto my nerves. Lost in a mirage of thoughts I feel this need to talk to someone. Its a late hour in India and not the best time to call. I call my husband but he is busy. By now, the roar of silence around me is defending - as if making fun of me - "this is what you came here for?". My heart answers, "Well yes, that was one of the reasons - but not any more". To turn off those thoughts I decide to turn on some music. Youtube - I type in the first song that my fingers dictate -"Ye jo des hai tera". Rather than taking away my thoughts, the song pushes me deeper into them. I feel my toes twitching when SRK steps into cold water. I feel his agony when he looks at the photos pinned by his desk. I feel....a thousand things...but all in all just one emotion, that's so new to me.....

Nostalgia. Memories. Smells. Colours. Sights. Sound. Tastes. I miss India.