The Chair

When she was born, the only thing the mother had wanted was the right to name her. Sadiya was cut off from her family because she married a Hindu, Marwari dentist, Dr Neeraj Maheshwari. Herself a dentist, Sadiya named their first born Azeeza. And precious she was, for she was born of loving and doting parents. Her name created a stir from the time she could recall. It was strange even for the most international schools where she began her schooling and later in the boarding school where she completed her boards. Azeeza Maheshwari at college was an element of surprise. She was demure and dynamic, and flashed about in her mother's embroidered kurtis and torn denims. In the three years of studying International Relationships, she sported three different hairstyles and having excelled at most of the oration oriented competitions, managed to win a scholarship to London School of Economics.

Today, clad in her well fitted denim shirt that revealed her contours beautifully, and her nearly-faded-into-a-colourless-blue pair of jeans, she walked out of a certain bungalow, the wall coat nearly as faded as her jeans. As she waited for a taxi she chanced upon the name. It read Baraka. At dinner she decided to have the dialogue.

'Ammi, Papa, I am not accepting the scholarship to LSE,' as she chewed on her mutton bone. She sat in a very lose t-shirt, the sleeves of which were cut off hurriedly over a very hot pant. Dr Maheshwari made a quick eye-contact remark about it to Dr Maheshwari. Azeeza paused to drink the green ghol. And paused a little longer before beginning with a stammer. 'I -- I -- Papa, I, have more to say.'

Neeraj was too used to things running smoothly outside his screaming chamber to not be nervous with his daughter's confrontation. They lived in a posh locality, amidst posh furnishings. Dialogues hinting at dispute did not belong here. They belonged to silences. 'Why not LSE?' He continued with the kheer.

'Do not ask her. She must go. She will.' Continued Sadiya from her cucumbers dipped in curd. She was nervous too. Azeeza never allowed unpredictability. This was dangerously new. Azeeza smiled at her mother and signalled for the jug to be passed on to her. It contained more chilled ghol. 'Have the kheer, Azu. Don't try and fill up your stomach with liquid only.

'No Ammi, it actually helps my digestion after so much biryani and who said I won't have the kheer? I will have after sometime. I am watching Friends tonight, the entire third season. You can join.' She refilled her glass and began, 'Papa, Daadu told me about where Naana-Naani live.' She looked at Sadiya. Sadiya thought she misheard the information.

'Ammi, I have been visiting Naana-Naani each summer. I am not sorry for that, or that I never told you. You would create quite a scene and I was not ready to let you spoil my visits. Ammi, Ammi, I am not asking you to go back, you can breathe.'

Sadiya was silent. That was all. The silence was icy, and tall. And uncomfortable.

Azeeza looked back at her father, 'Papa, I thought I should let you know that I never discussed what caused such a rift between Ammi and them. Ammi, listen, they are well by the grace of God and doing really well in the carpet business that they run from home.'

'What business?' Sadiya let out.

'Carpet. Oh, Naanu is super smart. He gets these fabulous stuff from Kashmir and sells them to loyal customers who always wore his tailored clothes line. And, Naani!'

'What were you saying about LSE?' Neeraj butted in.

'Yes. So I have been helping them choose the design and communicate with the artisans and the shiz. This morning we finalised our first exhibition which would also have a half a day workshop every alternate day for the first week. It will open at Studio Forty Seven. I will give you the invite tomorrow morning. It will be really nice if you both can come for the inaugration, which will also mark my debut as a curator and co-owner of Baraka.' She returned to the mutton bone.

Sadiya slumped in her chair. Azeeza's speed was too fast to catch up with. 'Baraka? Azu?'

'Yes Ammi. I really liked the name. Naanu-Naani and I decided to sell the carpets under the label Baraka. It is a concept -- the carpet of blessings.' She finally gave up the bone and fished half a potato out of the serving bowl and put it on her plate.

'Does the garden still have the white roses?' Sadiya asked from a distant past at the head of the table.

'Yes Ammi. But they do not bloom so often.'

Opposite Azeeza, Neeraj was relieved that their daughter was speaking in such a matter-of-fact, non-dramatic manner. He was proud of her upbringing, and at this moment was even happy that she would not go to study at LSE, or pursue the business of teeth. His parents would be so happy to know that Azu went on to become an enterpreneur. He went back to a time when she would insist on staying back with his parents and the next day he would be told that she went with Daadu to their factory, complete with her tiffin box and waterbottle.

'By the way, Ammi,' as Azeeza relished the last bite of the potato, 'Naani told me about the chair. Since you gave it up long ago, I hope you will have no problem if I use it. We have turned the library into an office from where I will be working, and the chair sits behind the big table, also from your room.' Her plate was smacked up as clean as food had never been laid on it.

Sadiya knew the chair. It belonged to her grandfather, a freedom-fighter and a poet. He worked as a columnist in the leading Urdu and English newspapers. When she was a child, she used to go up to his room, stand up on a tool beside the chair, force her grandfather to open his mouth and look inside with a torch in her hand. She had an idea that if you looked deep, you could see the many houses of the chocolate insects. Her grandfather indulged her in the game too and used to egg her to find betelnut houses of paan insects. And when she was a little older told her how a pun was meant to stain as much as a paan did.    

'I want that chair. I want it in my chamber. Please Azu.'

Azeeza smiled. 'Naani said you would. Of course Ammi you must have the chair. It belongs to you. Take it from Baraka, your room. You belong there too.'

As Sadiya spent a sleepless night in Neeraj's arms, they could not decide if all this was pre-planned by Azu actually. Meanwhile, in her room, as Azeeza felt precious at the thought of bringing together her parents and grandparents, over Friends, she could not understand the value of the chair. She had almost sold it for a meagre three thousand rupees.

She decided it was as invaluable as the kheer.