Dear chair

Dear beloved chair,

I remember the day my best friend told me about the fascinating chair she eyed at the furniture store. It was too high for her standard, or so we presumed. I can precisely recall the glint in her eyes when she used to describe me how comfortable it would feel in the arms of that grandfather cathedra. And I, like a good best friend, let her dwell in the warmth of her fantasy never realising that one day I would have one to myself too. Little did I know then that chair would be you.

I never found you. You were a part of the passive background of my life; a place which was rarely penetrated by sunlight. However, in the desolate setting of one lunar eclipse I happened to accidentally stumble upon you. You had a roughness about you which I could figure out even in the deathly hollows of pitch black darkness. I was fascinated by the authenticity of your being – the fresh work of an unskilled carpenter with a nail or two hanging, the aroma of the fragrant sandalwood and the virgin furniture you were. I thought you would be a perfect companion after a long, tiring day, a good choice to rest my head on in my lows, and would fill the empty space in the room of my heart. So I brought you home. A home brimming with love and affection you would never want to leave.

It is a general perception that the  best of the sleep is experienced when you sleep on a king size bed with a fluffy mattress. Because it is then when one would be kissed by angels. But what about the unprotected periphery which can be easily invaded by demons too? An even worse scenario, what if you yourself unknowingly fall in the treacherous mire called life? A bed cannot protect you from such a situation because it has no boundaries. But a chair, my friend, will engulf you into its arms and render you seamless support. And you, my precious, have been my saviour many times. Thanks to the rough edges.

During the course of time, I was completely oblivious to the fact that the protruding nails can pierce me equally. The coarseness can scratch me too. But I could not let go of my cosy companion so easily. So I ended up buying rolls of sandpaper. Little did I know that all my efforts of scrubbing you on daily basis would eventually go in vain.

I rubbed you, trying to make you smooth at places that won’t let me have a reason to get up from your strong persona for even a second. I spent countless nights doing the same. Though the nights went fine but the morning sun could not hide the bruises on my hands. Still, I tried, for I loved you immensely. Alas! In the process one of your legs shrunk and I, stumbled. Optimism didn’t leave me and I still clutched onto you tight enough to prevent myself from falling completely. But my repeated scrubbing at the same leg resulted in a great fall. And so I did with a thud.

I am sorry I cannot have you anymore. But the broken reminisces of your being still make my eyes well up with a warm, universal solvent which dissolves the solid particulates of love and longing alike. Maybe you could have whispered in my ears to stop early or polished yourself one stroke at a time?

I’m standing at the doorway of a new phase; completely clueless for how long I can survive just standing; maybe till the day my wobbly legs don’t give up on me. I am not sure though. Just guessing. But what I am sure of is that I won’t be able to visit a furniture store in near future and if, in case, I accidentally end up trespassing one, I would be scared to buy myself a chair this time. 



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