A room of one’s own, of course, was the dream of a child in a middleclass Delhi home. For me it then became a house, and finally, when it was time to get furniture for the house, I only dreamt of tables !
When did I first learn that I was a table lover? Was it when Dad made us bulky study tables? ‘Ye tera - ye mera’—clear divisions between my sister and me. Was it a few years later in the college hostel when the square common room tables were lounge hubs during the day and study hubs at night? Was it when some tables were too wobbly, too large, too divisive, had too few seats?
Some of you may probably remember what the marker of climbing the ladder of success at work looked like pre-2020. Tables were a big part of it. In my line of work (the development sector), when you were starting off (early 2000s), it was usually in a home-bred organization operating out of a residential area. When you entered the house that served as the office, you were greeted by a line of tables facing the wall in the common area. That was probably where the newbies were to work. Only one thing in the room had a fixed spot—the shared computer. Everything and everyone else was shuffled around a lot. Not too many people personalized their desks. No pictures, pen stands, or paperweights. You hoped that as you grew in experience and hopped a few jobs, you would get to claim a decent workstation, and eventually, the hope was for a cabin/cubicle/room (Gasp!).
That organogram and ladder of progress did not hold my butterfly brain captive for long. I was soon working from home, part of a small outfit with fewer team members. It was then that I realized that the tables at home didn’t feel like mine! Mine in the way that I could let stray scraps of paper lie about and leave a snack bowl to lounge. Some people can put down their bags, take out their notepads, laptops, accessories, and claim a space as theirs for the moment or forever. I envied this to no end. I, on the other hand, could only do this if I knew a space was mine.
So, for my new home, I found myself falling for table after table in Nampally’s used furniture market. Like a depraved soul, I ogled at the tables. The dust, the dulled polish, the chipped edges, the sturdy legs, the absence of polish smells, old wood, dated designs—all of it watered saplings of joy in my heart. I traced my hands along accidental pen marks and intentional engravings and heard soft soothing sighs from its last life. Behind piles of MDF, the grains of some old teak wood would shine broodingly, not preening and pretending not to care for attention. I’d climb over a chair or two to get to it and say hello, promptly falling in love with these older beings and checking them out for comfort. One by one, I brought home three tables for the glorious total of 5,000 rupees. Preloved can provide a lot for very little. I was set. I spent hours working on each table by turns through the day and hours into the midnight. Writing, drinking coffee, eating meals, catching up on gossip, drinking beer, prepping meals—living. Those tables shouldered the weight of witnessing my life rather well!
Seven years ago, I moved again. This time to live with my parents. I passed on the tables to others and folded up my spacious single life to live in the bustling home of my parents and sister. My life was downsized to fit one room. When I reached home, my sister had ready for me the only thing she knew I would need immediately—a table. She brought the cheapest one she could find so that I wouldn’t feel guilty trading it in for a new one of my choosing.
We discussed tables every few months for five years. I did not get a new one. We walked all around Amar Colony in Delhi and found nothing to size and everything too shiny. We rolled through Banjara Market and many of Delhi’s furniture destinations, but a table of my loving specifics was not to be found or was just too expensive. I probably dreamt of Nampally on the days I was at Amar Colony!
Two years ago, we finally found a good fit. My sister, who has been hearing me ramble on for years about tables, helped get me what I wanted. Then helped me get another one, and yet another one. When you see them, they won’t look special to you. They are as plain and simple as they come. They are almost the very textbook definition of a table—a top with four legs. But in their expanse and their flexibility, they are made for by someone who has been listening closely for years about what I want. The tables tell me I am listening to my body, finding sweet spots where the shoulders don’t need to shrug to access the keyboard, and the chair lets me plant my feet on the floor firmly.
The love of a good table is many things, more so now that so many of us work from home. A table, having your own table with inalienable rights to its design, clutter, and use, can make a space home quicker than any framed photograph. The story of how a hostel common room table came to be ours back in the day is begging to be told. Our college hostel common room had large tables. N and I were relatively heavy-busted, loud, and smut-talking youngsters, who were still to become very bonded with each other. One night, as we sat to study before an exam, we looked at each other and laughed and high-fived. Somewhere in the weeks of studying together, we had both independently arrived at our solution for our backs that were tired thanks to bad bras. Our hostel-avatar-bra-free-boobs were scooped up and placed on the table- naturally, unconsciously even. So when we spotted a kindred spirit- it was love and high-fives. We called out to show the hack to our friends and roommates—from the prudest to the poshest. They laughed till their sides split—a few tried the hack every other night as we sat to study. That large table offered more support than the ill-fitting bras of our youth, and our backs were grateful. That week, the hostel became home because we used the common room study table as our own. Over 15 years from then me and a friend with whom I sat to study on those very tables (who only laughed at N and I didn’t share in the experiments she would like me to specify I’m sure) started a small thingamajig enterprise of our own. While we were starting out, we shared a large table at work, and I watched with deep breaths how she straightened everything on it, and she tolerated my leg shaking for a good 10-20 minutes before humming a stop signal. The day we had money and time to spare, we got ourselves separate tables, and they sit right beside each other in happy, quiet, mirthful, and peaceful contrast.
If you are someone who can flop down on the floor or any chair or any table to do your writing or art or work, I’m happy for you. No, really, I’m happy for you in the way a dear writer friend has taught me to be happy for others - through clenched teeth. But if you are like me and need to/love to/ can afford to tailor-make your space for creativity and work, from odds and ends in second-hand markets and extract a commitment of belonging before getting comfy…I see you. Get what you need; #*&k minimalism. Your back …and your mind will thank you.
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Do you have a thing for tables too? Reply via email, leave a comment, dm, I’d love to hear your table stories!
I LOVE IT. dad made chunky tables, foldable tables, bed tables -- all kinds of stuff for us. I am still looking for the right table. And so is Udit. I think we dream of good tables!!! Let's go table hunting, moley. :-)
I wouldn't describe myself as a table lover but kuch kuch hua when I read this. Maybe I will find something nice on Pepperfry.