The chair with a world around it

Ramesh settled into his chair, stretching his legs and arching his back. The chair with a world around it was his window to the world.The chair, worn from years of use, sat in the middle of a patch of grass officially referred to as “The Lawn” in the housing society’s documents.

Every day, Ramesh, the society’s watchman, would spend at least ten hours in that chair. He moved it in sync with the building’s shifting shadows as the day progressed. His duty was to guard the housing society against the unseen threats of the outside world. The dull plastic chair was his throne, his kingdom. He hated it when anyone else sat in it.

Protecting his chair was a never-ending battle. Just an hour ago, at precisely four in the afternoon, Ramesh had found the old gentleman from B-23 seated in his chair. The society manager had sent Ramesh to buy some stationery, a task he was often saddled with. Although he didn’t mind running errands for the residents, who usually tipped him for his trouble, he resented the unpaid demands from the manager.

On his return, he spotted Mr. Sapatnekar, the retired school principal from B-23, comfortably settled in his chair. Ramesh, as has been mentioned before, did not appreciate anyone sitting in his chair.

“That’s the watchman’s chair,” Ramesh said, careful to keep a safe distance from Mr. Sapatnekar’s walking stick. The old man had a reputation for taking swipes at those he disliked.

The old man didn’t respond, his glazed eyes staring through thick horn-rimmed glasses at something in the distance.

Ramesh cleared his throat. This time, Mr. Sapatnekar turned his head and squinted through his glasses at Ramesh. After a few seconds, recognition dawned, and he smiled before returning to his distant gaze.

“It’s a bit uncomfortable, isn’t it?” Ramesh asked, trying to coax him out of the chair. “I’m used to sitting on it for hours.”

There was no response.

“It belongs to the society,” Ramesh continued, “part of a set that came with the chairs in the office. All six of them. The others are in the office.”

Ramesh rambled on about his cherished chair, hoping to get the old man to move.

“The manager expects me to be in my chair at all times, watching over the building. He gets angry if he doesn’t see me seated here.”

“There was a large pond here,” Mr. Sapatnekar suddenly said, his voice filled with nostalgia. “Massive mango trees surrounded it. I used to swim there as a child. My parents’ house was just a stone’s throw away. That’s why I booked this flat when the complex was built.”

“Kids use this chair as a goalpost when they play football!” Ramesh interjected, steering the conversation back to his chair. “That usually happens when I go to rest in the afternoon. After lunch, I sleep for about half an hour.”

“We used to have competitions to see who could swim the fastest,” Mr. Sapatnekar continued, ignoring Ramesh’s attempts to redirect the conversation. “Mohan and Jagtap were my best friends. We were inseparable. I was well-built as a child, and in my teens, I won medals in athletic events. That’s how I became a physical education teacher. Those were the days…”

His voice trailed off, lost in memories of a long-forgotten past.

Ramesh stood there, uncertain of what to do next. The society manager could come by any minute. He tried a different approach. “It must be time for your evening cup of tea,” he suggested.

Mr. Sapatnekar’s daughter-in-law, a nurse at the government hospital, usually served him tea around this time. She lived with her husband Ajay, Mr. Sapatnekar’s only son, in B-23. Ajay, like his father, was a teacher, but he taught physics at the local government school, the same school from which his father had retired as principal.

“I met Asha at a sports event,” Mr. Sapatnekar continued, ignoring the hint. “I won a gold medal that day. She was there with her school friends. There were hardly any schools for girls in the forties. Her father was a teacher. Asha could sign her name in English! Did you know that?”

Ramesh wasn’t interested in the old man’s family history; he just wanted his chair back. He heard footsteps behind him and turned, hoping for help.

It was Melvin D’Costa, the society manager. Ramesh hurried over to him and explained the situation. Much to Ramesh’s surprise, D’Costa agreed to intervene.

“Good evening, Sir!” D’Costa greeted Mr. Sapatnekar with uncharacteristic deference. In the society office, he was usually gruff and abrasive.

Mr. Sapatnekar looked up, his expression stern. “Melvin, why aren’t you in class?”

He never forgot his students, especially the naughty ones. Melvin D’Costa, the son of Rodriguez D’Costa, the village fishmonger, had been the leader of the troublemakers. How could he forget him?

D’Costa smiled. “Sir, I’m no longer in school, and you retired twenty years ago.”

“Always an excuse,” Mr. Sapatnekar muttered. “Go to your class, or I’ll have a word with Rodriguez.”

D’Costa sighed. His father had passed away more than a decade ago. Mr. Sapatnekar had even attended the funeral. D’Costa was about to remind him when his cell phone rang. He turned away to take the call, leaving Ramesh feeling abandoned.

Ramesh heard Mr. Sapatnekar mumbling to himself, singing an old film song from the 1950s. Ramesh cursed his luck. Just as he was about to give up, he heard the sound of anklets approaching.

Shyamlee, Mr. Sapatnekar’s four-year-old granddaughter, came skipping towards them. Dressed in a colorful frock with her hair tied in a neat braid, she called out, “Dadaji, it’s time for your tea!”

She loved the silver anklets her parents had given her for her last birthday and made sure they jingled with every step. She grabbed her grandfather’s hand with both of her tiny hands and pulled with all her might.

Amused, the old man got up. “You always forget that Mummy makes your tea at exactly four. Is it my job to remind you? I have so many tasks to doarranging my dollhouse, finishing my cat drawing, practicing my dance steps…”

Grandfather and granddaughter walked away towards B-wing, her non-stop chatter fading into the distance.

Ramesh wasted no time. Finally, he was back in his rightful place. He settled into his chair, ready for the evening shift.

“Watchman!” someone shouted.

It was the woman from D-23, who often sent him to buy provisions from the nearby stores. He always wondered why she couldn’t make a single list, but he wasn’t complainingshe paid him for each trip, and that was all that mattered.

“I’m coming!” Ramesh called out, jumping up from his chair and hurrying towards D-wing.