I Want To Talk To You

“I want to talk to you.”

The air whispered to the man who was standing nearby taking a picture of the sunlight filtering in through the window and lighting up the wooden floor. Two chairs and a small round table were laid by the windowpane. It was an invitation for a conversation for two people in thought, with a cup of tea and a leisurely morning to interact.

He looked around expecting another man to be around. Even if it was another man, it was quite an unusual request as he had not interacted with any of the guests during his stay at the hotel. He turned around but found no one. Probably he had imagined it. Continuing to absorb the aura of the morning on the rather antique looking lobby, he walked towards the many portraits adorning the wall.

“I want to talk to you.”

There was a slight warmth on his left shoulder as if he had allowed the sun to kiss it as a lover. He looked around. There was nobody in the lobby except the receptionist who stood working at a far end behind a magnificent wooden desk.

“By the window. I want to talk to you.”

Ah! The man understood. It was somebody at the window calling him. He was relieved momentarily. He was about to turn. Then he paused. It struck him like the sting of a bee near a yellow wildflower — why would anyone call him from a window? Nervously, he turned to look at the window expecting nothing more than a protruding hat. Of course, a person so surreptitious would not be ogling through the window at him.

There was no one at the window. The man was partly scared and furious by now. He fervently moved towards the main door to go outside and look for a possible mischievous kid.

“Do not leave, sir. I want to talk to you!”

The voice boomed across the hall as he was just about to exit the lobby.

“Who’s there?” Our man yelled at a reverberating unoccupied lobby and his voice startled the receptionist who by some summoned patience refrained himself from telling off a guest.

“By the window. Sit down at the chair facing the portraits.”

The voice was a whisper again.

He shuddered. Befuddled he looked at the receptionist who was unperturbed. There was still nobody in the lobby. He barely moved. He shuddered once more. Then he ran towards the stairs ahead and looked up. Nobody was to be seen.

“Sir, is everything okay?” The receptionist, now concerned, asked in the most polite manner.

“Yes. Yes. I just… It’s okay. I will go sit for a while.” He spoke and headed to the summoned chair. The receptionist glared at him from the corner of his eyes as his guest managed to recover some composure and settled himself facing towards the other chair.

“Hello, sir. Thank you for sitting down. I want to talk to you.”

“Who are you?!” The man whispered with so much fervour that spit came flying out of his mouth and landed on the chair opposite to him.

“Sir, please calm down,” the voice said assertively.

It went back to a gentle whisper — “I am a very old chair.”

“A chair?” The man nearly fainted. He was short of laughing very loudly but his earlier behaviour contained all natural reactions.

“A chair, I see. Let us pretend this is real and I am not dreaming. What do you want?”

“Sir, this is a dream. But to leave, you must answer three questions.”

The man looked around disbelievingly. The receptionist was nowhere. In his place was a chef preparing a meal. He turned towards the chair. He must escape this madness.

The voice continued — “Why does the mist never leave these hills?”

“Why do the trees never leave the hills?” The man retorted. He leaned ahead.

“I like you. The roots.” The voice paused. “The roots cannot float. But why the mist?”

“You grow clueless, my friend. Just as the trees belong here, the mist does too. The trees act as the roots for the mist. From this chair you see a distant blanket, but within it you see the sorcery. The moist breath accompanied by a breeze talk like an old storyteller but only to those who can feel him. The secrets of these hills, the trees and of the lovers. The mist gives us whatever we have here — life, mystery and love.”

“I am satisfied. Is talking to a chair normal?” the voice asked the next question.

“Normal is a word born out of convenience.” The man thought and sank back into the chair. “This camera was not normal six centuries back. The light behind me was not normal too. My attire would shock an entire civilization. My choice of music would leave Bach bedraggled. It is completely normal to be talking to a chair. Although, this is only a dream.”

The man smiled as the chair asked the last question.

“What is your name?”

The man answered.

There was a tap on his shoulder. “Sir, your car is here.”

He woke gently, looked up to see the receptionist standing next to him. He was seated in the chair facing the portraits in the lobby facing another chair by the window. He shuffled and got up.

“It was a pleasure having you here, Mr. Ganguly. Have a safe trip.” The receptionist said as he shook his hand and led him towards the car.

This story was originally published by myself on Medium. https://medium.com/@kaustavganguly11/i-want-to-talk-to-you-e07502cabd67