Let me begin by saying I am living a dream, a dream of many years. I am sitting and writing at my new study table that arrived just two days back. Ever since this piece of long-desired furniture arrived, I am roaming around the house totally charmed by her ravishing beauty. I love the way she gleams in a brilliant brown that is reserved only for Mahogany. It’s a colour that makes me go weak on my knees, makes my heart melt like gooey deep brown chocolate. From handbags to shoes to kurtas to fashion accessories, I have invariably melted at the sight of objects of this colour.
So a study table in this colour isn’t an exception and it has haunted me persistently over the years. In fact, I sneaked in small descriptions or made passing references to the writer’s desk of my dreams in some of my stories which had author characters. But the complete picture was something like this: A huge, solid and spacious study table which has a beautiful table lamp in the corner. It has a combination of brass and dark brown wood for the base and a pale olive green shade. An artificial plant is placed diagonally opposite to that. Adding to that are all writerly-and-bookworm-specific paraphernalia spread out tastefully across the generous length and width of the table, while other things find their places in the draw and cupboard on the side.
My dream is now a reality. The table of my dreams sits majestically with all the nuances in place just the way I had imagined it to be. Every time I steal a look at her, I understand how the phrase ‘killing me softly’ rings so true. It’s like the sort of love that enslaves your senses and punches your heart gently, one that makes even sadness seem so beautiful. It’s a very writerly affair because there’s something absolutely mesmerising about sitting here and writing to your heart’s content in the soft yellowish glow of your favourite table lamp. The lamp illuminates the occupants of the table in a romantic fashion, casting perfect shadows and bringing an ethereal feel to the entire setting. Add to that a dash of scintillating Yanni music in the background, powered by a speaker that ensures it plays out every little sound distinctly for you to hear and cherish; there could be nothing more magical for a writer.
I spotted this dream table on an online furniture store a few months back and was horribly dejected when I saw the tag ‘Sold Out’ mercilessly sticking to the table’s picture. Since that day, I would diligently visit the site every day to see if that tag disappeared. It didn’t and over the days, I gave up and decided that I should be sensible enough to shrug this madness off my brain and heart. But what I didn’t know was that the Husband has been keeping a tab on it too and one fine morning, he discovered that his wife’s obsession was back in stock. In one swift move, he got it ordered. The two weeks that I waited for the table to arrive would perhaps qualify as one of the longest and most restless waits, only next to the few frantic days of wait before my son and then a few years later, my daughter, were born (and also when I waited for my first ever two-wheeler to be delivered).
It is amazing how we choose certain things to brighten up our days, how these things make you smile to yourself and feel totally good about your life. They make you look forward to waking up and living the rest of the day because their presence is going to make a difference to your life, in a big or small way, that day. They are around to make you feel complete and define who you are as a person. I don’t know if it sounds crazy but I sense a dizzying happiness when I see my striking brown study table alongside my two bookshelves stuffed with books of all sorts on one side and a wall filled with bookish posters and a soft-board full of reminders on the other. It’s just the perfect picture of how I would want my world to look like.
Strangely, especially when I am nose-deep into work and left alone, I would like to imagine that my entire world is just this small setting that I have built around myself and the rest of it is a blur that eventually fades into nothingness. The only thing that is boundless is imagination powered by words from the books you read sitting at the table and that which powers your words as you write away furiously.
I am not sure if this is a typical Piscean trait, being torn between reality and imagination. But this imagination is so alluring that I wish I can plunge into the depths of its blue waters (somehow, I imagine imagination to be blue in colour!) and create endlessly. Wouldn’t it be such a fulfilling process especially when you have the perfect setting? While Time would provide me an answer to that, I am sure of one thing now. Life feels good. Real good.
Picture by Heric Heupel under CC license