The Curious Case of the Missing Chair
We recently had guests over.
Not two or three.
The kind of guest count where your house starts negotiating with physics.
The sofas were occupied.
The dining chairs were taken.
The lone jhula in the hall had found its owner.
Even the bean bag, which spends 364 days sulking in a corner, had finally been called into national service.
Thankfully, I remembered we had invested in four plastic chairs for occasions just like this.
I found three.
One had vanished.
Now, nobody steals a plastic chair.
At least that’s what I wanted to believe.
Had we lent it to a neighbour?
Was it still lying in the society compound after some gathering?
Or had it simply given up on this family and walked away?
Meanwhile, my guests had already entered the most Indian phase of hospitality. To save me further stress of hunting for things to sit on, one of them said,
“Arre… adjust ho jayega.”
Which, if you think about it, is probably India’s unofficial national motto.
Three people squeezed onto a two-seater sofa.
One uncle was somehow balancing on half an armrest.
Another insisted he was perfectly comfortable while looking anything but comfortable.
And there I was…
Searching for one missing plastic chair as though it held the dignity of the entire household.
I began my expedition.
Bedroom.
Nothing.
Guest room.
Nothing.
Then I noticed it.
A mountain of clothes.
Not a pile.
A mountain.
The kind that has clearly evolved over several weeks and developed its own ecosystem.
Curiosity got the better of me.
I started excavating.
First came yesterday’s T-shirt.
Then a towel.
A pair of jeans that were apparently waiting for “one more wear.”
An unused steam iron.
A bunch of hangers still trapped inside newly bought shirts.
Two unopened Amazon boxes.
A gift bag.
A wind chime someone had lovingly gifted us years ago, still waiting for the “perfect place” in the house.
And then…
Everything came crashing down together.
The hangers clanged.
The iron dropped.
The boxes tumbled.
The wind chime finally fulfilled its life’s purpose.
For about three seconds, my bedroom sounded like an orchestra conducted entirely by poor life choices.
And there it was.
The missing chair.
Perfectly fine.
It hadn’t disappeared.
It had simply been buried beneath our everyday lives.
That’s when it struck me.
Every Indian home has one.
Officially, it’s a chair.
Unofficially, it’s a wardrobe, a laundry basket, a helmet stand, a shopping bag depot and the waiting room for clothes that are “not dirty enough to wash, but not fresh enough to go back into the cupboard.”
It quietly collects yesterday’s jeans, tomorrow’s shirt, a towel that’s “still good for one more use”, unopened Amazon boxes and things you’ll definitely put away…
Tomorrow.
I carried it back into the living room with the expression of a man who had accidentally revealed his own crime scene.
Thankfully, nobody asked where I’d found it.
I quietly placed it beside the sofa and asked,
“Tea?”
To my disappointment, everyone said yes.
A few minutes later, I emerged from the kitchen balancing what felt like a hundred cups of tea.
And then I realised…
The centre table was gone.
I looked towards the bedroom.
There it was again.
Another heap of clothes.
Waiting patiently to tell me exactly where it was.
Turns out, the chair hadn’t disappeared.
It had simply been doing the job no one had ever officially assigned to it.
Every Indian home has one chair.
It starts its life as furniture.
Somewhere along the way, it becomes a family member.
