The Table

Image by derich on Freepik; written by Meghna Majumdar

Scratched. Stained. Crooked. If you put too much weight on it, it groans. If you stuff some newspaper under one leg, though, at least it stops rocking. It’s everyone’s favourite table.

She sprinkles the day's first drops of gangajal on it. Three generations of feasts, fights and family meetings have earned it that right. She sits there, right after daybreak, remembering everyone who’s sat there before. She asks for all their blessings, remembers all their love. Her favourite table.

They set the baby down on it sometimes, to crawl about, safely surrounded by adoring faces. One day, she crawled right up to her cooing mother, grabbed her nose and squealed, “Ma!” Her favourite table.

He sits by it in the dead of most nights, away from the chatter and the questions. He moves the newspaper away, so it rocks quite nicely. He lays his head on it and lets it sway him, to and fro, to and fro. No nags about his meals, no scrutiny of career plans, no cruel peer jokes, no pressure to drink or smoke or fight or kiss. Just silence, rocking to and fro, to and fro. His favourite table.

She spreads her diagrams out on it after lunch. As the baby and everyone else naps, she works. He watches her sometimes, sneaking back from the shop on some pretext. It’s the only time he sees that side of her: intent, calm, focused. She knows he’s watching. She appreciates him keeping his distance. Their favourite table.

It won’t last much longer. One leg wobbles way more than it should. The dent along one edge creates a pool of dust. It can be fixed, but there’s a furniture sale next week. At the shop with that lovely teakwood set. The family’s been waiting. Everyone’s favourite table.

(Re-published from 2016)