My grandfather called out to me ‘Chinchu, I can’t hear too well, so please make sure you listen for the score okay? How much India made in the match, against Sri Lanka…’ I look up from my chemistry textbook. My grandfather is listening to the evening news, sitting in his ‘easy’ chair. That’s what he calls it. And it really is the ‘easy’ chair. You can ease yourself down into it, it has wooden frame with a piece of happily stripped cloth that hangs low across the length of the chair. Much like a cloth lounge chair, but with so much character, so much history. If ever, a chair could speak, it’s this one. The ‘easy chair’ is some 80 years old; it used to belong to another old lady from Dohnavur Fellowship where my grandparents grew up. All the furniture I’ve seen in my life has disintegrated at some point, but this chair and my attachment to it, fosters feelings in me akin to those one would relate to seeing an old friend again, a solid reliable, unchangeable one compared to me. I have grown, and times with the chair have gone from my little 5 year old feet dangling over the edges, to adolescent seventeen year old limbs planted firmly on the ground. Everyone from my family; cousins, uncles, aunts and me, we draw strength from it, comfort, Thatha’s comfort. It as though some of the wisdom left over from the hours that he sits in that chair is palpable, like a tangible frequency we could absorb into our young, proud, inexperienced minds. We fight to sit in it, even if it’s for a minute, but as soon as my Thatha needs it, it is given up with all due respect. And much awe.
‘Has the part about the match started yet?’ he asks me again. ‘No, not yet Thatha… do you want me to turn the volume up?’ I asked him. Rather loudly, as the voice of the radio newsreader reaches daunting decibels in her recitation of President Pratibha Patil’s speech. ‘Yes, please’ he answered, and I got up wondering why he hadn’t told me to do that before, so he could hear for himself. The radio was turned already turned up to full volume, it was loud enough for the entire closely packed street full of matchbox houses to hear the national news, but not for my Grandfather. He couldn’t hear it. ‘I’ll tell you the score when they read it out, okay?’ I shout across the room. He nods in response, rests his head on the back of the easy chair and closes his eyes, his fingers tapping the worn teak of the arm rest in time to the rhythm of the changing news headline background music. My thatha always likes to close his eyes when he eats or drinks, he also likes to sip his tea with a spoon sometimes; he says he appreciates the taste better and for longer that way. As he munches on some freshly fried onion pakodas he tired to brush away a crumb from his big characteristic nose with his strong, fingers. They are slightly curled. The tendons and veins are clearly visible as they are stretched taut under his wrinkled, aged skin, and I expect his hand to waver as he raises it uncertainly to his face, some 5 inches from the target, but he gets the crumb of anyway. It’s funny how this simple action can seem so endearing… ‘Sri Lanka won the toss and the score stands 125 at the loss of 1 wicket…’ explains the earnest newsreader, going further to say that ‘… India does not have good prospect at clinching the series at this rate…’ How astute. I relay the news to my grandfather, who is now suddenly alert, telling me how ‘India gets too overconfident, they need to be humble, and they really have to bat well this time.’ With this he leans back, and I hear his breath even out as falls into easy slumber. As I turn back to my chemistry textbook, continuing to read the passage on Electron Affinity, I realize that if anything could make my life worthwhile, it’s this time, this time in between.
