The Wooden Chair Creaked Again

The wooden chair creaked as Salma slowly placed herself into it. She turned her head to Mr. Banerjee who was sitting in one corner of the room to make sure that the sound of her deteriorating health did not reach anyone. Catching Salma’s eyes on him, Mr. Banerjee put his book down. This was quite a horrific situation she had put herself in. Desperate to cover up, Salma shouted, “Oh! I didn’t see you there. Why are you sitting in the corner?”

 

“I was just reading. Needed a break from classes.” 

 

“What’s the book?”

 

Walking closer to Salma, Banerjee handed her the book. “You can have a look.”

 

Salma was filled with regret for starting the conversation. She was in no mood to talk and rather just have accepted arthritis her old age was bringing.

 

Old age was confusing. The newfound power of her crankiness being accepted by her family made Salma feel uncomfortable. They would smile at her every time she walked into the room, vacate the sofa for her and forbid her from cooking dinner. Trapped by her family’s sense of politeness, the 62-year old felt compelled to escape and spend half her day teaching geography at a local school. The other half was spent facing the disgustingly warm “how was your day?” From her kids. Salma fondly remembered the times when the same kids would draw on her face with crayons or hide her keys and run away. She could have if she wanted, accepted the changed roles and drawn on her kids’ faces instead, but she didn’t. Perhaps she too was trapped by her own sense of politeness.

 

Salma ran her finger down the side of a page from Banerjee’s book, taking note of the oil stains and corny notes Banerjee had made. She could feel a shudder go down her back – how could someone treat a book with such carelessness?

 

“I see you have a book of your own” Banerjee said

 

“It’s just my journal”, Salma said putting down his book on the desk.

 

The journal had a dark brown paper cover, with a string that went around, pretending to hold it together but serving only an aesthetic purpose. Salma had picked it up at a stationery exhibition they put up once a month. She had a soft spot for stationery. It’s all her mother would buy her when they went shopping. How happy she was to get dirty with all the oil pastels and markers. She would make a card for whoever’s birthday it was next and sign it off in big bold letters, as any proud artist would do. Her habit of journaling came from her mother, and she has safely kept all her past journals in a cardboard box stuffed at the back of the cupboard.

 

“What have you been journaling about?”

 

“It’s a journal, not the school notice board for others to come and read.”

 

Salma was naïve. She did not know that very few people were even aware that the school had a notice board, let alone them going up to read it. Nevertheless, the sharpness of Salma’s retort cut through the air.

 

“Ok! I won’t ask.”

 

Salma sensed that the immediacy of her retort could have come across as impolite. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

 

Banerjee seemed harmless, perhaps she could share a bit. “I’ve been writing about my relationships with people and how they are starting to wear off. It’s a strange feeling you know?”

 

“Who are these people?”

 

“My family, for the most part. I don’t feel the same amount of love with my kids. They still respect me and care for me, but you know when something is missing right?”

 

Salma’s eyes, to avoid looking Banerjee in the eye, got fixated on a stain on his tie. Banerjee was wearing a red tie with small white hearts printed all over it. Surely, he must have been invited to a lot of weddings in his lifetime. The temptation of a juicy, hot jalebi is not one you try to resist. Not even if the syrup creates a stain on your favorite tie and your wife bans you from wearing it at parties.

 

Banerjee’s wife had tried to throw the dirty tie away, but he had fought to keep it. A tiny fabric was stitched on the backside of the tie reading: “Arnab, I love you.” Indeed, Banerjee had a first name – Arnab. However, every workplace in Bengal needed someone called Mr. Banerjee, and Arnab was volunteered to fulfill this role in the school.

 

“Have you told them about this?”, his voice became noticeably softer.

 

“How could I, when I don’t know what I’m thinking of myself!”

 

“Mm…you’ll have to put in some deep thought to this.”

 

Arnab caught himself in the middle of that sentence. He had once seen his neighbor’s son struggling with a math exercise and decided to go help the poor child out. The poor child ended up getting half the answers wrong and Mrs. Banerjee had sat Arnab down to explain why he should never give people unsolicited advice.

 

“Never mind that. How does the whole situation make you feel?” Arnab tried to compensate for his habitual mistake.

 

Running her finger down the clean edges of her journal, Salma looked up at Arnab. “I don’t know. These books, they have my entire world contained in them. I’ve written down every pain in them and they still accept me. They force me to think. I just think and think and think about my feelings- leaving such little energy to actually sit down and feel them.”

 

Salma looked out the window. The trees outside intercepted the shine of the sun, forming soft, warm blobs of sunshine on the walls of the staff room. Salma raised herself out of the chair and walked to the staff shelf to pull out a flask. The room got filled with the wonderful smell of ginger and cardamom- the dense fragrance that comes when you stop caring or start forgetting that your chai supplies are rationed to the tee. She poured out two small glasses.

 

“Thank you for talking to me”, she said, handing him a glass and picking up her things from the desk. “I should get going to class now.”

 

The wooden chair creaked again as Arnab sat down. Instinctively resuming where he was before Salma came in, he picked up his book. It was his late wife’s favorite book that he only recently discovered in the bookshelf in his apartment. He decidedly put the book down and sipped on the warm chai, while it lasted.