The Chair

(1)

How could you make the handles like these?

Sir?
What’s the deal with this ‘sir’ business of yours? Can’t you see how fat I have become? Do you think I can sit with my legs clung to each other for 10 straight hours!
No, Sir!
You guys lack common sense, which by the way has become so uncommon.
 Sir!
If these handles were a bit slimmer, I would have been able to stretch out a bit. That’s what I have been trying to tell you.
Sir! The carpenter’s wife has been suffering from some sort of girly sickness. He is off to Diamond Harbor; on leave for the last 15 days.
Let him go to hell! This is not a job for old haggards anyway. Do you know that the three-fourth of a working man’s life is spent in his office chair? Is it too much to ask for a boss to ask for comfortable chair?
Sir! I will return in another two weeks, and cut these handles to size.
Thank you. You don’t have to—by that time fungi will grow in my crotches. Please leave.
Sir!
‘Haripad,’ big boss pressed his calling bell.
Haripad appeared.
What’s the deal with you guys?
Sir?
What 'Sir'? For how many days do you think I need to strive for a single chair? The chair for an officer is everything. He does things sitting in his chair, and if that chair is not okay nothing is okay. You can’t even fix that chair. See…
As big boss tried to sit in his chair, one of the chromium plated wheels rolled away and he fell out of balance.
Goodness me, he sprung up.
Haripad did the same. Everyone in the office knew Haripad as the shadow of big boss. Haripad jumped when his boss was jumpy, Haripad cried when his boss was sad, Haripad laughed when his boss was happy.  Haripad wore safari-suit just as many other big officers in the office. They would have done the same what Haripad had just done; it was their duty to tune themselves to the whims of big boss. But Haripad was an artist in the art of flattery. Big boss knew it all too well; yet he enjoyed falling prey to his flattery.
Even God demands flattery, and he is just a big boss of an office.
For the last one year, big boss had been trying to get a comfy chair that suited him.
These Nilubabu-Filubabu of yours are worthless! They don’t even know what they are selling. If the producer doesn’t know his product, he is going to be alienated. That is why the Bengali never succeed in their business.  The owner and his salesmen are full of air while the workers are gone to Diamond Harbor.
Haripad!
Sir.
Is there any Chinese carpenter around?
There are some in Teritybazar.
Call Mrs. Sen, and ask her to send an orderly from our Park Street branch to get some brochures of chairs. Go to the Chinese market as well. See if you can find me a decent chair. The company that cannot give a solid chair to his top man is bound to go bankrupt.
Big boss reached for the red light button, meaning none was allowed in anymore. He was very upset. The chair kept on leaning to its right whenever he tried sitting in it. After all, he was a leftist intellectual.  What would people say if they see him tilted towards the right? Disgraceful!
Within an hour, Haripad entered with a bunch of brochures of executive chairs. Some of them were as big as thrones. Even by sitting in front of them might give you the feeling of being a pigmy. That’s the problem with modern management system; the lesser the internal material, the bigger the external chair. Big boss was a plump man, and if he sat in one of those he surely would be lost. No way was he going to get one of those in the flyers.
Haripad! Get the Chinese carpenter.
The Chinese carpenter showed up in an hour, and he measured up the vital statistics of big boss like a seasoned tailor. Big boss instructed Mr. Chung Fing to make such a chair that would comfort him for the next eight years of his service. Mr. Chung Fing thanked him and left.


(2)

The date of the arrival of the chair came. Big boss thought of the chair while shaving. He felt the excitement of going to a tryst.
On his way to his room, he ordered his secretary Mrs. Sen to attend the Bihari clients with whom he had a meeting in the conference room at 11am.
Give them something to eat or drink and keep them busy for a while; I might be a little late.
He entered his room. There it was: his chair with foam and leather upholstery in faded yellow that reminded one of autumnal leaves.
The chromium-plated wheels rolled nicely. The back of the revolving chair swung back and forth quite smoothly too. He just needed to sit in it and feel its comfort.
The intercom buzzed at the wrong time. Shut up! No call for me for the next half an hour—not even internal calls! He ordered his staff.
He looked at the chair as if it was his newly-wedded wife. He stood in front of it and gave it a formal salute before turning his back to adjust his huge anterior to the posture of the chair; he attempted to plunge into his chair just as ducks do in water.
Stuck, big boss got stuck! The Chinese chair clung onto him like an octopus. This must be a conspiracy of Mr. Chung Fing. He frantically reached for the calling bell.
Haripad stormed in.
Pull me out.
Sir?
Pull me out. I am stuck in the chair. H-a-r-i-p-a-d.
The lanky man tried his best, but in vain. Big boss was absolutely stuck. His face had become pale as white paper. There was no way he could be pulled out.
Turn the chair, face it to the window. The boss calmly ordered, and Haripad obliged. The revolving chair moved rather easily.
Leave me now Haripad. Don’t say a word to anyone.
Sir?
Don’t tell anyone that I am stuck in my chair.
No sir.
Big boss looked out of the window. The air-conditioner was humming. Down at Commack Street, a trail of cars were wheeling by. The company was quite big, involved in the export of iron, steel, tea, marbles and what not. His salary was quite fat, too. Besides there were many perks: commission, visits, treats, fees, extras here and extras there—very sticky business, indeed.

The cry of the kite that flew above the sky could not reach the office room. The sky of Calcutta was still blue; only people did not have time to see it.

What could possibly go wrong—he personally made sure that the chair was tailored to his size and customised to his taste.

He probably thought himself much bigger than the chair.

Translated from Buddhadev Guha’s ‘Maap’.